


One Giant Leap

by Slenderlock



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Wier
Genre: Complete, Cover Art, Happy Ending, IN SPACE, Log entry format, M/M, Mark is bad at talking to people, Miscommunication, Podfic Available, Regular narrative format, Road Trip, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:30:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 50,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5111351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slenderlock/pseuds/Slenderlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark Watney survived 549 sols stranded on a barren desert planet barely able to sustain life. But a 211 day trip home, stuck in the <i>Hermes?</i></p>
<p>With this crew, he never stood a chance.</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5111351/chapters/15731560/">[COMPLETE: Chapter 43]</a>
  </b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into English available: [[Podfic] One Giant Leap](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8286185) by [swagnushammersmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swagnushammersmith/pseuds/swagnushammersmith)



** **

 

**Log Entry: Mission Day 688**

Beck wants me to keep doing personal log entries as much as I can. Says it'll help.

Well, they're not really log entries, they're technically more like journal entries. The difference being that log entries are given to NASA and these won't be. I don't know what the point is, if no one's going to read them, but who knows? Maybe I'll shove 'em all into a book someday. They wouldn't even have to be good- I'm so popular right now that I could probably slap my face onto anything and it would sell.

But anyway. Back to this thing.

Honestly? There's not much to say.

Without having the daily hassle of, you know, not dying, there's not too much to do up here. Beck was nice enough to give me all the reports he'd made of my plants while I was gone, so at least I've got that to read.

And I've got to hand it to him, really. For a brilliant doctor and biologist, he's a spectacularly shitty botanist. I mean, he remembered to water them. But he must have looked over my notes _once_ and then just decided he knew what to do. I should consider myself lucky on their behalf that they're still alive at all.

But hey, technically my track record is worse than his.

I'm not allowed to actually see them- i.e. get out of bed- for at least a week. So, I get stabbed through my spacesuit, and a day later I get outside to take stock of things. But I break _two ribs_ and suddenly I can't even walk. I mean, I _can_ walk, but Beck won't let me.

The crew's survived this long with five people, they can handle themselves without me for a little longer. And in the meantime, I get to just. Do nothing.

At least I'll have the data dump to look forward to every day.

\--

Well, I've still got half an hour until Beck comes by to give me an update on my ribs and helps me over to see the data dump, so. May as well pass the time by talking.

I'm still in Beck's quarters, he's using mine. Since his place is still the working medbay and he doesn't want to move me over to mine and risk making something else in my body go horribly wrong, I guess I'm just stuck here for a while.

I woke up this morning and forgot where I was. I probably should have expeceted it, but whatever. At least I didn't have some kind of horrible vivid nightmare about the Hab depressurizing or the rover tipping over or a hundred thousand other ways I could be dead right now.

But yeah, I didn't recognize Beck's sheets. Or the walls. Or anything.

It took me a few seconds, but I got my bearings. Luckily, I didn't make enough noise for anyone to notice, so as long as Beck doesn't decide to be a dick and read any of this, I'll be fine.

I'm scared as hell for the data dump. It's probably just going to be stuff for me- videos from my parents, from NASA. The rest of the crew is probably going to watch me watch it, the jerks. But I'll be able to send a message back with my face on it, which will make NASA's PA teams very happy.

Personally, I won't be satisfied until I get a personal message from David Tennant. I used to have the biggest crush on him when I was a kid, ha. Maybe crush isn't the word I'm looking for.

Confused pre-pubescant boner.

There we go.

**Log Entry: Mission Day 688 (2)**

I'm gonna buy Johanssen her own monogrammed spaceship when we get back.

I was right; the data dump was almost all for me. There were a couple of things for the others- flight plans for Lewis and Martinez to look at, a bunch of instructions for Beck to find out exactly how many kinds of cancer I've got, and a really long letter to Johanssen that I think probably boiled down to Never Do That Again.

But there were video messages from my parents, the teams down at NASA, a group of people from the Chinese National Space Administration, the President, and a bunch of celebrities. Including- I shit you not- David motherfucking Tennant.

I hadn't even opened up the file from my parents before I knew I was about to start crying like a little kid learning his dog was never sent to a butterfly farm. So Johanssen (bless her nerdy, nerdy soul) made them all go off and do something else. She said she'd come back to help me back to Beck's quarters in an hour, and then it was just me and the data dump.

I'll spare you the heartwarming details of my parents' video message and the five minutes I spent bawling my eyes out. But I _will_ give you the horribly disappointing news that David Tennant's message didn't include the words "hey, handsome, want to grab a coffee sometime when you're back on earth?"

It's safe to say my hopes were crushed about as much as they were when I was sixteen and found out he was married.

But anyway.

I sent a few messages back, giving each one of them careful consideration and taking time to think each one through before recording. And by that, I mean I hit record and said whatever sappy shit I could think of for about five minutes, pushed stop, then pushed record again.

I'm sure mom and dad will be delighted to see my gross, barely shaven face again. At least they can't smell me, right? It's probably gonna be a week before I've finally washed out my own stench. Which means it's gonna be at least three weeks until Beck stops complaining about it.

I'd say more about him, but I know he's probably going to snoop through these, even if he said they were private. He's doctorly, like that.

But I guess he knows what he's doing. Even if my ribs hurt like fucking hell, I'm probably in the best hands I could be. At least he hasn't told me to "break the rest of them, too, then that one won't feel as bad." (Credit to that masterpiece of comedy goes to Martinez, by the way.)

But whatever.

Dick can go suck a Beck.

I'm not retyping that. It's the universe's way of telling me I'm right.

Fuck, I'm exhausted. I could carry all the solar panels and lash them onto the rover in a day and still have enough energy to write an ode to my hatred of disco afterword, but now I can't look at a bunch of video messages and lug myself back to my room without wanting to pass out.

Funny how things turn out, isn't it?

Well, no. Not really. Or maybe? I don't know.

Fuck this. I'm going to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm breaking just about every single rule I have- I hate first person, I hate chapters with tiny wordcounts, and I hate starting something without knowing where it'll finish.  
> but you know what  
> fuck it
> 
> (rn every log entry will be a "chapter" but if i write enough for this i might consolidate them)  
> (but fuck continuity amirite)
> 
>  
> 
> **EDIT: 3/29/16 Coverart by the wonderful[mmarkwatney!](http://www.mmarkwatney.tumblr.com) Thank you so much!!!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Log Entry: Mission Day 716**

Okay, fuck it. If Beck's really a masochist who enjoys putting himself through hell, he can plow through these stupid entries as much as he wants.

Not that he cares, obviously.

He barely looks at me anymore. Hell, he even goes out of his way to make sure he's hardly ever in the same _room_ as me. He always waits until I've had my rations before taking his, he always "happens" to be heading out of whatever room I'm going into- I'm sure he's thrilled that I'm finally allowed to be up and walking- and even when he's checking up to make sure my ribs haven't decided to spontaneously combust, he barely says anything at all.

And I think I'm about 80% sure I know why. Maybe 75%. It's always hard to tell why Beck does anything. But I think I've figured it out.

I must have no-homoed him to death.

Is that still a thing? That was a thing when I was in highschool. If that's not a thing, someone tell me.

Because he was perfectly fine to fucking _catch me in space,_ perfectly fine barging into my bedroom and not embarrassing the living shit out of me for having a nightmare, and perfectly fine having a goddamn _heart to heart._ But then Johanssen walked in, and then he didn't say anything after she left, and he just...

You know what he's acting like? He's acting exactly like when I met him. When he didn't say a goddamn word to me until almost three months in. It's not, like, crippling shyness. He just doesn't talk unless he has to, and he listens the rest of the time. I used to hate it, actually. I thought he was being a pretentious dick. But nah, it's just him.

So if this is his way of telling me he's mad at me? Then he's being stupid.

At least Johanssen will put him back in his place, if he ever thinks about flat out ignoring me. She's so goddamn scary when she gets angry. Or just in general. Yeah, no, she's just scary.

Beck's always been a stick in the mud. I'm honestly surprised he went along with the mutiny plan at all. He gets upset when things don't work and mulls about instead of fixing them. The coffee machine on the _Hermes_ stopped working, thirty or so days in, and he didn't tell anyone. He was just an asshole for the entire day before Johanssen _finally_ cornered him and made him talk. And it took, what, three minutes to fix?

Oh, yeah. And he also fucking hates it when I swear.

Okay, maybe not _hates._ But he does this stupid thing where he gives this look, and it's so condescending and disapproving and god, I hate it. Martinez and Johanssen swear, too, and he never does it to them.

Maybe he just hates me.

Might be nice, actually. After all, my natural charm does make pretty much everyone like me. So it'll be refreshing to have someone that really hates me for a change. Or maybe it won't. Whatever.

God, what a nightmare.

Oh, speaking of. I had another nightmare last night.

Have you ever had a dream about slowly suffocating to death, all the while accompanied by a steady background mantra of the Bee Gees? Because let me tell you, that shit is _hardcore._

I know it only takes a few seconds of pure Martian air to lose consciousness, but I spent so long thinking I was about to die that I guess I never lost the fear.

Sucks, huh?

But at least this time I wasn't loud enough to attract attention. No, I'd just rolled over into my pillow, so whatever pathetic sounds I was making were apparently muffled enough to not attract attention.

Or maybe Beck just heard and didn't care.

He's not that much of an asshole, I don't think.

Maybe he is.

Maybe someday, I'll finally understand how Beck's brain works. Maybe when he's dead and I can look inside it. But then again, he's the biologist, I'm just a botanist. I could look at it and conclude that it would make great fertilizer.

For now, I guess I'm just going to have to go with the assumption that he's an asshole.

**Log Entry: Mission Day 716 (2)**

Fuck's sake.

I can't even take a fucking nap.

I can't fucking sleep.

I can't

This isn't helping. It didn't help then and it doesn't help now and I don't know why I thought this would help because it's not and I can't

Fuck it. Fuck this. Fuck Beck for thinking this would help. 

**Log Entry: Mission Day 716 (3)**

I miss my dog.


	3. Chapter 3

**Log Entry: Mission Day 717**

Johanssen is officially my favorite.

When I die, I'll put it in my will that these entries will be uncovered and she'll be given the title of Mark Watney's Favorite Astronaut. Because Johanssen's going to outlive me, obviously. And because that'll be a formal title, by then.

But anyway. Johanssen's my favorite.

See, she gets me. She didn't have some traumatic car accident forever ago, or anything, but she gets me. She probably studied psychology while she was training to be a super-nerd, I wouldn't put it past her. So, yeah. She understands.

I know, I know. Beck's a doctor, shouldn't he be the one dealing with illness? Even if it's mental?

Yeah, probably. But fuck it, I don't want to talk to him about my problems about as much as he doesn't want to listen. So it's a win win, really.

Also, if I was saying this aloud, I would have just said "butt fuck it."

But back to Johanssen.

Whatever this is, it's getting worse. Actually, there's no "whatever", I know exactly what this is. I thought for a while about denying it, but I figure you can't really spend a year and a half stranded on Mars without being at least a little mentally damaged. Though this probably counts as more than a little.

I don't have nightmares every night, but they're often enough that she noticed. I still look like shit from eating so little for so long, but I look like extra shit because I've barely been sleeping. I figured out that if I set my watch to wake me up every 90 minutes, I go through one sleep cycle and I wake up before REM kicks in, which means my brain doesn't have the chance to think up some new way for me to die. So that's the good part.

The bad part is that I wake up every hour and a half.

Anyway. Johanssen caught me. I know she did because she did that thing when she realizes something where she stops whatever she's talking about and rubs the back of her neck. Some people rub the back of their necks when they're embarrassed, Johanssen does it when she realizes something.

But get this- she didn't say anything. Not to me, anyway. She told the whole damn crew, though. I know because Martinez can't keep a straight face to save his life, and if he's got something he's not supposed to say, he'll say it before he even opens his mouth.

They've all been helping out. In their own special ways.

Shall I go down the list?

Lewis has been giving me first pick of the data dump- she sends my files over to my laptop before everyone else's, along with copies of the stuff that's sent to all of use, so I don't even have to go wait with everyone by the computer.

Vogel sent me copies of all the logs he'd managed to gather in the 6 sols we were actually doing research on Mars. He asked me to add whatever details I could, based on my findings. So I got to spend an hour or so trying to remember what the hell I'd done with his core samples, and another half hour writing down (in loose terms, i.e. with more than a few four letter words) the shitty experiments I'd done on them.

Martinez is just... he's so bad at hiding things. I love playing cards with him because it's so easy to win. But I have to admit, I missed his humor. Not that it's really humor, course. I guess I just got so used to being spoiled by my own sheer comedic genius, it's nice to finally take a step back and enjoy the awkward almost-humor that Martinez has spent 39 years perfecting. Yeah, he's awkward. He's awkward as hell. I love it.

And Johanssen? I don't know how she knows. She just does. Every time she hands me something, she touches my hands. Sometimes if she's standing next to me, she'll lean up against me. She doesn't even say anything about it.

Reminds me how much I missed them all.

I'm going to try to sleep tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tiny wordcount is murdering me inside  
> (also mark arent you forgetting someone)


	4. Chapter 4

Chris Beck grimaced as he scrolled through the file detailing Mark Watney. Until they'd pulled Watney back through the airlock doors, this particular file hadn't been opened since Beck had looked them over before launch. There was one for every crewmember on board, and they contained emergency medical information such as allergies, past medical emergencies, and the like. Beside the computer was a black covered notebook, with NASA's logo embossed into the bottom right corner. It was open, and Beck's hand rested tensely above a page near the beginning, which was blank.

Beck hesitated for a moment before clicking his pen on and scribbling down the words _"Mission Day: 718"_ on the first line. He'd had no real reason to hesitate; he knew precisely what day it was. 

He was a doctor, he told himself. An EVA specialist on the side, yes, but a doctor. And Watney needed a doctor.

But Watney wasn't like the others. Watney had never been like the others.

Well, he'd just have to play it by ear. He was still a doctor, after all, and he had to do this.

On cue, Watney pushed the door open carefully, as if afraid of knocking something over by doing so.

"Ah, Watney," Beck greeted, nodding as Watney entered, closing the door behind him. “Right on time.”

Watney grinned in reply.

“Didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

“Have a seat.”

Watney, who was already halfway down to the edge of Beck’s bed, merely grunted in assent as he sat down.

“Shirt off.”

Watney opened his mouth, but Beck cut him off before he could start.

“Shirt. Off.”

Watney obediently tugged the navy blue shirt from his body, struggling for a moment with the left sleeve before managing to peel it off. Beck took note of the now fading bruises littering his skin, and nodded to himself.

“How’s your food intake?”

“Still going with less than half rations.”

“Calorie intake?”

“Hey, I’m no calorie counter.”

“Calorie. Intake.”

“God, _fine._ Working up to 2,000 calories. Not quite there yet.”

Beck hummed absently as he wrote down each answer.

“Ribs?”

“Still ribs.”

“Watney.”

“I forget, did you graduate from buzzkill academy in 2019? Or did you take an extra year to let it really sink in?”

Beck set down his pen.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously-”

“I _am_ taking this seriously.” Watney folded his arms. “This is my serious pose.”

_“Watney.”_

Watney rolled his eyes.

“Ribs are fine. Still broken, but fine. No extra pain, whatever.”

“Right.” Beck nodded, writing it down, and looked up at the file. He squinted. “There were medical supplies in the Hab, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Loads.”

“I’m assuming you used some of them?”

Watney nodded. Beck frowned.

“Any barbiturates- Scrobarbital?”

“No- I’m not an idiot.” Watney folded his arms. “I wasn’t going to live four hundred sols on Mars and die from an allergic reaction because I didn’t read a label.”

“I’m just covering all the bases, here.” Beck raised an eyebrow, not taking his eyes off from the notebook. Below his last notes he jotted down “ _no danger—barbiturates.”_

“Who even uses barbiturates anymore? Weren’t they out of date in the 2000’s?” Watney frowned.

“2010’s,” Beck answered, not skipping a beat.

“Right, right. Yeah, we’ve got better stuff now.”

“Mm.” Beck scrolled down Watney’s file, looking for any other allergies that could have been triggered on Mars.

“And I doubt Luminal would taste half as good on a potato,” Watney mused, more to himself than to Beck.

“Half as good as?” Beck prodded, pointedly not looking up.

“What? Oh, Vicodin,” Watney said, without thinking. He realized his mistake nearly instantaneously, as his ears promptly turned beet red.

Beck sighed.

“It was a possibility,” he admitted. “All right. Estimated daily intake?”

“It wasn’t _daily,”_ Watney started, but stopped when Beck looked up from the notebook and fixed him with a glare. “All right, all right,” he amended, leaning back a little more. “500 milligrams. Approximately every day.”

“So, not every meal?” Beck extrapolated.

Watney rolled his eyes. “No. Stranded on Mars, remember? You learn how to stretch out supplies.”

Beck nodded, scribbling it down.

“And you’ll be off the oxymorphone in a week,” Beck continued, not looking up at Watney.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been taking one every night?” Beck prodded.

Watney shifted, staring at the bedsheets. Beck stilled his pen and looked up.

“Watney?”

“It’s just-” Watney looked down at his chest. “It’s been hurting a lot, even with the medication.” He shrugged.

“Your rib could have scraped your lung a while ago,” Beck mused. “It might be aggravated now that you’re walking more often. Let me see.”

He leaned forward and pressed a hand on Watney’s chest, then applied pressure. Watney winced.

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Beck decided, leaning back and writing hurriedly in the notebook. “0-g is good for healing, but I don’t want you taxing yourself. I’ll check you over in a few days to see if anything’s changed.”

“Right,” Watney said, flatly. “That everything?”

“Yes, that’s everything.” Beck finished the sentence with a neat period and set his pen down. “Go back to… looking at plants.”

“Will do,” Watney said, reaching for his shirt. “I mean, I know we’re in space, and all.” He tugged it over his head. “But sometimes there just isn’t anything better than watching grass grow.”

“Out of my office.”

“It’s your bed.”

_“Out.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> breaking another personal rule- i generally don't like past tense, I find present tense much more natural and easier. but the style of the book is in past tense, and i might as well break all the rules
> 
> second note: this is officially separate from my [other martian fic,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5031079) b/c i hadn't started to flesh out beck's character when i wrote it and it doesnt really make sense if you read em back to back. like i said, this isn't completely planned beginning to end
> 
> third note: [this has a blog? thing?](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com) its just posting the same stuff, chapters and everything, but on a blog instead. so check it out i guess? 
> 
> im a mess


	5. Chapter 5

**Log Entry: Mission Day 718**

I might have fucked up.

I mean, not in an "I'm going to die because I fucked up," but a different kind of fucked up. I spent a year and a half where every fuck up I made was one of those, so it's a little weird not to be panicking. Or maybe I'm panicking. I don't know. No, I do know.

I'm panicking.

I may have just lied to Beck.

I didn't mean to bring up the Vicodin, I knew he'd freak out about it. Or at least he'd get all pissy about it. And guess what? He did. He started going on and on about my goddamn pain medication, and if I'd been taking it more than I was supposed to.

It's not like I'm addicted to it, or anything. I just need it to sleep.

I didn't write it down here because I thought Beck might have been reading these, but now that I know he's definitely not, fuck it.

I'm supposed to take one oxymorphone every night before I sleep. I tried that, and it doesn't work. And with how nice everything was going last night, I figured I deserved a good rest, so I tried taking two.

Slept like a baby.

That's actually a horrible metaphor, babies are the worst sleepers. Really, I slept like a high school student on a weekend.

The point is, it worked.

So what's the problem? Well, Beck knows. Because I'm stupid. And also because I'm stupid, I panicked and told him I was taking more pain medication because, I don't know, some bullshit about my ribs hurting. Which is stupid, because they'll be fully healed in a couple more weeks.

But I guess he bought it.

Still. Don't lie to your doctors, kids.

I guess I should address the elephant in the room: no, I'm not addicted. Yes, I took Vicodin with every meal back on Mars, but that was because it hurt to stand up and walk around, yeesh. And I'm not taking oxymorphone now because I'm addicted to it, I'm taking it because I need it.

Johanssen probably thinks I'm sleeping better because she got the crew to be nice to me, so it'll boost their morale. I keep this up and things will go back to normal. Provided Beck doesn't decide to be a dick about it and start taking goddamn x-rays to see what's wrong.

But given that he's already a dick, that's a little more likely than I'd like it to be.

I have two options.

Option one: Survive Beck's interrogations for another few days, then tell him I feel fine and that I'll be back to regular doses. And then I can just get it myself. Then, after I'm scheduled to be off it, I can still just get it myself and make sure Beck doesn't decide to be an incredible dick and snoop through my stuff.

Option two: If I don't want to risk being caught, I can also stretch out the medication by taking two one night, timing my sleep in ninety minute increments the next, and repeating. I'd still be getting more sleep than if I was just taking them normally. The only downside is this plan will only last until I'm supposed to be off the medication.

Game plan? I'm going with option two, until Beck goes back to ignoring me. Then I can try option one and if it doesn't totally fuck up, I'll be set.

But I have plants that are five minutes overdue for some TLC, so I'll do that later. Watney out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea how many mg of oxymorphone youd take a day?? ive just been frantically googling narcotics for the past hour and im too afraid to say 500mg  
> i swear im not addicted to anything im just trying to write my goddamn fanfiction ok  
> also idk if they have an xray machine in space? im guessing not? but then again its supposed to be 2020something so who knows what theyve got  
> mark u lil shit  
> [blog](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Log Entry: Mission Day 719**

  
To anyone who has read over my logs and is wondering why there aren't fifty three entries on Martian masturbation: there totally are. NASA is just a group of grumpy old people that don't like to have fun. Sorry you missed out on that, I'll try to recap for you:

Okay, now that Beck's definitely not reading this, I'll continue.

So, Beck and Johanssen are totally doing it.

Scratch that, they probably aren't _doing it_ yet. Lewis would kill them. She'd kill Beck, at least. Honestly, I almost think she's got her eye on Johanssen, with all the talk about not hitting on her.

If that's the case, then she's _definitely_ gonna kill Beck.

But whatever. I'm glad they sorted their shit out. Here's hoping it'll be any less annoying with a couple on board than with a pining-almost-couple on board. But hey, now that Johanssen's staked her claim, I can stare at Beck's ass all the livelong day.

Hear me out.

See, Beck and I would never work. I mean, come on. I'm a botanist, he's a doctor. What would our kids look like?

Seriously, though. It's so much easier to stare at his ass when I know it's taken.

It's harder to explain than I thought it would be, I guess. Maybe it's just that I don't have to worry about what would happen if he thought my ass was great, too. And maybe I sound like a fifteen year old girl, but whatever. I'm pretty sure if I was a fifteen year old girl, I would still be able to tell that Beck's a hot piece of ass. Though if I was a fifteen year old girl, I would probably do stupid shit like write his name over and over in a pink ass diary. With fur on the cover.

But it's not like a crush, or anything. God, fuck that word.

It's not. His ass is just... great. And, sure, he's my friend and everything (it's kind of hard to go to Mars with someone and not be friends.) He never laughs at my jokes, but I know he likes them. He does this thing with his mouth where he kind of bites his lip and it's adorable, and I'm about 85% sure it means he's trying not to laugh. Because I'm hilarious.

Okay, fine. Maybe it's a little more than just his ass.

But I don't have to decide whether or not to say anything or do anything about it- whatever it is- because Johanssen's got that under control. So I can ogle away all I want.

I'm up to 1800 calories a day, Bossy-Beck's orders. With the exception of cookies. Vogel dug up the stash of Christmas cookies- and I don't think he would have opened them, but Martinez told him to (at least, that's what Vogel said when Lewis asked him.) But I'm not stupid, I know why.

It's been a month since they came back for me.

We've still got a long way to go before we get home, but it's a nice reminder that we are, actually, going home.

Oh, yeah. By the way, I didn't get pneumonia, thank god. I think Beck would have taken it as a personal insult if I did. Though, to be fair, he takes most things as personal insults. I bet he'd take it as a personal attack if I told him how nice his ass was.

I should buy Johanssen something nice when I get home, as a "congrats for bagging the hot doctor" present.

He'd probably be offended by that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maarrrkkkk  
> mark my sweet small bab  
> also HUGE SHOUTOUT to [ArlennilM](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlennil/pseuds/Arlennil) for her amazingly detailed comment about the use of opiates- the best i can say about my research is that i managed to google what an opiate is and what different names there are for them :/ Also go check her out on [her tumblr,](http://www.arlennil.tumblr.com) she's got tons of cool stuff. 
> 
>  
> 
> [(blog?)](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

**Log Entry: Mission Day 721**

I'm dead.

Mars didn't kill me. My broken ribs didn't kill me. Chris Beck has dragged me through the pits of hell. He threw me into the gaping jaws of the inferno and pulled me out through the tight, fuckable asshole of the netherworld.

By that, I mean I have been out-punned.

It wasn't really a pun, to be honest, but out-punned sounds like outgunned, which is actually a word. And it sounds better than "out-joked."

I can't believe it. I really can't believe it. This is _Beck_ we're talking about. And I mean, I've never not had a return joke on the ready. And I've never been _dragged_ quite this hard. I don't

I can't. You know what? I can't.

I have to check my plants. At least they love me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the wordcount is hurting my soul)
> 
> (also there will be a followup to this, detailing Beck's SAUCY MOUTH)


	8. Chapter 8

"Hey, Beck?"

Chris Beck hummed in acknowledgement as he peered at Watney's chest, pressing two fingers to the skin no longer marred with yellowing bruises. Satisfied, he leaned back, letting Watney pull his shirt back down. It was Watney's last scheduled checkup, so both of them were a little antsy to get the ordeal over with as soon as possible. Thanks to the medical supplies on board and the fact that Beck had taken it upon himself to forcibly keep Watney from moving about the ship before he was scheduled to, there had been no complications. Beck, personally, thanked whatever deity that had kept Watney alive this long. 

"Yes?" he said, typing down a few notes.

"I, uh." Watney coughed. "I wanted to talk to you. About something."

Beck finished his sentence, and hit return. "About?" he asked, narrowing his eyes as he compared his notes on Watney's ribs from various checkups. "This isn't a 'Johanssen's bullying me' kind of thing, is it?" He gave a half smile. "Because if that's the case, there's nothing I can do to help you."

"No, it's more of a 'what if I die' kind of thing."

He turned to face Watney, raising an eyebrow. Watney crossed his arms.

"I mean," he said, shrugging. "We're still in space, and I _did_ spend a few weeks with a bucket of radiation riding shotgun. Anything's possible."

"Right," Beck said.

"So just." Watney coughed. "You know. If something happens to me."

Beck cleared his throat. "As the only licensed doctor on this ship, I feel obligated to tell you that I'm also the only acting counselor."

Watney snorted. "I don't need counseling."

"You spent two years stranded on Mars."

"Fair point. But I don't need counseling."

"If you ever do." Beck gestured vaguely with his hand before dropping it back to his lap.

"Right, back to the 'if I die' thing," Watney said.

"Yes, back to that."

"There's something," Watney said. "There's something I want you to do."

"If you die," Beck clarified.

"If I die," Watney said, nodding. "If I die, I want you to do something."

"I'm not going to say 'anything'," Beck said, holding up a finger, "because I know you'll abuse that power."

"Fair enough." Watney smiled. "See, you're learning."

"But go on," Beck finished, leaning back in his seat.

"If I die," Watney continued, smile fading. "I want you to- I mean you, by the way. Not Lewis, or Johanssen, or Martinez or Vogel. I want you to do it."

"Right." Beck nodded.

"I want you," Watney said, "to be the one to." He pinched the edge of his shirtsleeves, eyes fixated on the fraying edges.

"To?" Beck prompted, gently. Watney inhaled sharply, then let out a shaking breath.

"I want you to be the one," he said, "to lower me into my grave." Beck blinked. "So you can let me down, one last time."

Beck pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I swear to _christ,_ Watney."

Watney collapsed into laughter, leaning back against the headboard and cackling more to himself than to Beck.

"You _asshole,"_ Beck swore, shaking his head in disbelief. "You know, for a second there, I actually thought you were going to be serious for five minutes."

"You-" Watney chortled. "You should have seen your _face,_ oh my god."

"I can't believe you."

"Hey- hey-" Watney held up a hand, still having to suck in breath between snickering. "Hey, Beck- you know what candy I'm never going to eat again?"

Beck stood, closing his computer. "I'm leaving."

"A _mars bar."_

Beck rolled his eyes, tucking the computer under his arm and heading for the door.

"Oh, come on." Watney pouted, cocking his head to the side. "You're gonna make me cry, you know. It's been two years since anyone's laughed at my jokes but me."

"I thought no one laughed at your jokes in forty two and a half years," Beck said, not even turning to look back as he walked through the doorway. "My math must be off."

And with that, he left a gaping Watney alone in the makeshift medbay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ~~the wordcount is murdering me inside, i love writing this but i just _cannot_~~  
> [blog?](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter 9

**Log Entry: MIssion Day 723**

Now that I can get emotionally attached to my plants- because I don't have to worry about when I have to dig them up and replant them- I've decided to name them. Well, not all of them. Just my favorites. 

Okay, I named the tomato plants. My thirst for Solanoideae will never end. I suppose I spent so much time in college praising them that they decided to do me a favor and keep me alive for a couple years. I also have a mandrake- just one, yeah, my brilliant crew managed to kill off the other three while I was gone.

Anyway. I've got three tomato plants and one mandrake, and I gave them all names.

The biggest tomato plant, I named Remus- as a homage to my Sirius missions back on Mars. The smallest one, which hasn't given me a single tomato bigger than a blueberry so far, I named Rover. He's trying his best. And ha, the middle one. They said it almost died because they overwatered it so much, but it stuck through, and it gives the biggest tomatoes out of all of them. I call him Rasputin.

The Mandrake is Beck Jr.

None of the other plants have fruits, so they haven't earned names. Though I've got a nice batch of lichen growing, which is honestly the most interesting part of my studies. I know, I know, it's technically not a plant. But whatever. It grows, it's not sentient. It's my thing.

I'm thinking of naming it Beck Jr. Jr.

I wonder if I could get it to grow in the shape of a dick. I probably could.

Okay, new plan. If I can grow dick lichen, it's going to be named Beck Jr. Jr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((again all my research is frantic googling, im not a botanist T.T))  
> ((mark is such a dork omg))


	10. Chapter 10

**Log Entry: Mission Day 725**

So, I can't grow dick lichen.

I've only got a petri dish full of it, and the part I was thinking about making into the nutsack is already too big. So I'll stick to my word, it won't be called Beck Jr. Jr.

It'll just be called Beck Jr. I'm renaming the mandrake Beck.

Only because I have too much fun writing down stuff like "Beck is blossoming today" in my notes when I check up on my mandrake. Or "Beck is wilting." Or "Beck is looking beautiful today."

In other news: I can't open a fucking door.

I mean, obviously I can open doors. But nobody else seems to think I can. It's like they think I'll have an allergic reaction to door handles. And drawer handles. And ration packs. I get the same rations as everyone else, now, I don't need Beck's carefully calculated whatever percent to have a goddamn meal anymore. You'd think I could make the harrowing journey through opening the drawer and picking out a ration pack.

But no, god forbid I even touch the damn drawer. No, the only way I'll ever survive is if it's handed to me on a goddamn platter.

If this is Beck's idea- if this is Beck's way of trying to make sure I don't hurt myself, he can just tether himself to the back of the Hermes and float outside for the rest of the mission. I don't care how much drag he'll make, I don't care how much longer it'll take to get home.

God, fuck Beck. Sometimes I just want to shove him out the airlock.

Not my mandrake! God no, I'm not _that_ heartless.


	11. Chapter 11

**Log Entry: Mission Day 726**

I wish I could get drunk.

I mean, you're not exactly allowed to get drunk in space. Millions of dollars’ worth of equipment, yadda yadda yadda, it's a Bad Time. But come on, think about it. Getting Space Drunk would probably be about a hundred times better than getting Regular Drunk.

Though I gotta admit, space nightmares aren't as good as regular nightmares. You know how in regular nightmares, when you feel like you're falling, you wake up and you realize you're in bed and everything's fine?

Well, in space, you wake up and you're still falling.

The cooling vanes are clogged again. I say "again" because apparently this happened once before, when the crew was on their way back here. Martinez had had to take Beck's room, and Beck had shacked up with Johanssen.

Which means that I'm way off- I thought they'd joined the "we had sex in space club" (Martinez calls it the "million mile high club" but I'm not stooping that low) just a few weeks after picking me up. But no, I guess I'm just not as observant as I thought I was. Ah, well. Maybe Martinez has stories. He's great at gossiping.

But anyway. My bunk is essentially an oven now, so I can't sleep there. Martinez's bunk is doing the same, so he's back in Beck's room. Which left me with Airlock 2. It's the only place where people aren't constantly running in and out of. I got a few nights there before Lewis found out. And of course she threw a fit, what with the "one seal leak and you'll die" thing. Because imagine the message she'd have to send back to NASA if I survived two years on Mars and died because I slept in an airlock.

So now I'm supposed to sleep with Martinez. And let me tell you. If you think "eau de stranded-astronaut-with-no-way-to-take-a-shower" sounds bad, you're not ready for "eau de Martinez's feet." So, hell no. I'm not sleeping with Martinez.

I'm sleeping with Beck.

I mean, come on. He smells nice, he's pretty, and he doesn't snore.

Mandrake Beck. Obviously.

Yeah, the plant room. No one else goes in but me, because I'm the botanist. And it's a nice temperature, because I have to keep it controlled in order to run experiments. It's 0-g, so I have to strap myself to the wall in order to not float around and smash my plants while I sleep. Martinez is perfectly happy to have Beck's bunk to himself, and Lewis says it's safe enough for her, as long as I'm sleeping regularly.

So, yeah. 0-g sleeping. Weird nightmares, weird waking up. Even the oxymorphone doesn't help, sometimes. Which sucks.

Speaking of! Since no one else is in horrible pain, no one needs oxymorphone. Which means that no one's paying attention to how much we have. Which means that my plan went perfectly- Beck thinks I'm off the stuff, which means the rest of the crew does, too. Which means I don't have to worry about Beck riding up my ass about how I'm going to get addicted and die.

Real Beck. Mandrake Beck would never say something like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I GOT MY BOOK BACK  
> REFERENCE MATERIAL YESSS  
> \- there is artificial gravity in their bunks (p.209)  
> \- there isnt in the room with the plants (p.143)  
> \- the rooms warming up was a problem on p.279 and it never says if they fixed it, so im just going with they did a patch to fix it temporarily but now its a problem again  
> \- uh? (p.256)


	12. Chapter 12

**Log Entry: Mission Day 728**

My plants haven't flowered yet. With the exception of Beck. There aren't any real seasons in space, so my plants can flower or wilt at any given time. Before Ares III launched, I planted them all at the same time so that they'd naturally match up their cycles. They flowered once on the way here, all at the same time. They flowered again right around the time the crew was approaching Earth before they swung around to pick me up, and the cycles were off by a week.

We weren't supposed to be in space for too long, so things like this weren't supposed to happen. And it's not a life or death situation, it just means it's gonna take longer to do any kind of environmental tests on 'em.

So now, they're more like a few weeks apart. Mandrake Beck is flowering now, but the tomatoes aren't. They have buds, but they aren't close to opening yet. I need to give it another couple of weeks before I can move them.

Move them, you ask?

I'll spare you the ramblings of a botanist who's been trapped on a planet, only able to grow one kind of plant for two years. But the basic gist of it is that since we're in space, we want to see as many different things affect the plants as possible. That includes temperature, movement, orientation, light, etc etc.

I read through Beck's and the others' lab notes, and they didn't do much, back when everything was flowering the second time. Which I'm honestly grateful for, I think they might have killed my entire garden.

Oh, yeah. I say Beck's and the others' because Beck was the one who took over my duties the most when I was dead. Only, surprise, Beck kind of sucks at botany. The most he did was water them and take notes on how they were growing. I think he was afraid that he'd kill them if he tried anything else.

Which is exactly what happened when Martinez tried to help.

Yeah, he's got this one entry about how he tried to rig up an automatic watering system, so that Beck wouldn't have to go back and water them regularly, but he managed to accidentally uproot all but one of the mandrakes in the process.

I'd like to point out that the closing line in his notes was _Watney's gonna kill me._

I take a certain pride in that. Not only am I the most feared botanist on Mars, I am the most feared botanist on this ship.

But back to the point, I'm going to have to move the plants as soon as the tomatoes start flowering.

The room they're in now has constant light, a controlled temperature, and nothing in it that could fuck them up. Which is great for growth, by the way. Back on Mars, my potatoes grew like crazy because they too had constant light and nothing to mess them up. And here, it's the same deal.

But they've gone through two flowering cycles with the same conditions, and this'll be the last time they flower before we get home. Which means this is my last chance to run experiments on the blossoms in 0-g.

So I'm going to move half of the ferns and half of the tomatoes into airlock 2, and shut the lights off in the Botany room for a little while. While the lights are off, I can experiment with temperatures, too.

I say half of the tomatoes. I mean two out of three.

It was a tossup between keeping Remus and Rasputin in here, but I think I'm going with Rasputin. Because there's no way I'm subjecting Rover to that kind of abuse after what he's been through, and I think anything with the name Rasputin has at least a 40% better chance of survival, in any circumstances.

But I don't want to move him until he's flowering, because if the lack of light kills him quickly, he won't get the chance to flower at all. And he really deserves the chance to flower.

I'm keeping Beck in the Botany room, but I'll pay the most attention to him. And if he doesn't take well to the conditions, I'll ship him out to Airlock 2. After all, he's my only mandrake. I can't afford to lose him.

But for now, I'm just pampering the three R's (that's what I'm calling them now) until they decide to flower. I considered feeding Beck a lower Nutrient EC to make him grow slower, so that the tomatoes had a chance to catch up, but I don't want to risk it.

And if you thought this wasn't geeky enough for you, I have an entire cache of observation notes on my computer that the whole crew can look at- Lewis likes knowing exactly what we're doing when we go off and do science shit, just in case she sees that one of us is about to fuck up and die. So if she looks at my notes, she'll see my terrifying plan to relocate about six plants.

Come to think of it, there are a few places where I should probably go back and clarify that I'm talking about a mandrake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((lewis reads his notes  
> "beck looks gorgeous today, i almost told him but i thought itd flatter his ego too much"  
> bc thats totally how mark would write about his goddamn plants  
> lewis gives him the side eye for six days))


	13. Chapter 13

“Where’s Beck?” Watney asked, leaning forward on Johanssen’s chair and watching as she downloaded the day’s data dump.

“Busy,” Lewis said, from the seat next to Johanssen.

“I’ll send his personal files to his computer,” Johanssen said, shrugging. “Along with anything addressed to all of us.”

“He said he had work to catch up on,” Lewis added, looking over at Watney. “Something about the medical inventory.”

Behind Johanssen, Watney stiffened.

“Something wrong?” Lewis asked.

“As the commander of this vessel," Watney said, “I think you should be the first to know this.” He scratched the back of his neck.

Lewis raised an eyebrow.

"I'm actually a robot," Watney said, seriously. "NASA created me and purposefully stranded me on Mars, with the intent of stealing funds from the government."

Lewis pinched the bridge of her nose.

 _“And,”_ Watney added, holding up a hand, “I was also running secret government tests that the world just isn’t ready to hear about, yet.”

“I suppose you’re also a clone,” Lewis said, dryly.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” Watney said, shaking his head. “I have to resign my position. Consider this my two weeks’ notice. I’m quitting.”

“We're in _space.”_ Martinez frowned. “You can’t just... _quit space.”_

“You could try,” Johanssen piped up, still typing. “If you threw yourself out of the airlock, I think that’d count as quitting.”

Standing beside Watney, Martinez snorted. Vogel smiled.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Watney said.

“Johanssen,” Lewis said, ignoring Watney, “Do us all the enormous favor of filtering Watney’s portion of the data dump from now on, will you?”

“Copy that,” Johanssen said, not even looking up from the screen. “No more conspiracy theories?”

“Oh, come on.” Martinez pouted. “Those are great!”

“They’re an insult to our mission,” Johanssen snapped. “I’ve seen a few of them. There’s a group that thinks we never even went to Mars in the first place. Something about the lighting and how the angle of the sun was wrong.” She scoffed. “Idiots.”

“Is everyone ignoring the fact that I’m a robot clone?” Watney said, waving a hand unnecessarily.

“Yes,” Johanssen said, at the same time that Martinez opened his mouth. She swatted his arm.

“Ow!” he yelped, recoiling a few inches back. “What was that for? I didn’t say anything!”

“You were about to.”

“Quick bickering,” Lewis snapped. “Johanssen?”

“Ninety nine percent,” she replied. “Oh, no- make that one hundred.” She sifted through the various files, dragging and dropping them into the different drives. “Okay, let’s see. Martinez, you’ve got a lot today.”

“My son’s three-and-a-half birthday,” he said, ears turning red at the tips.

“Your boy is spoiled,” Vogel said, but he was still smiling.

Martinez grinned. “Damn right he is.”

Johanssen rolled her eyes, and scrolled through the rest of the dump. “Not much more interesting stuff. Watney, you’ve got more emails. Vogel, updates, some for me as well, looks like Beck’s got- oh, there’s another audio message for all of us.”

Martinez looked at Lewis. “We didn’t leave anyone else stranded, did we?”

“God help me, I will _turn this ship around.”_ Lewis gritted her teeth. “Johanssen, play it.”

Johanssen pulled up the file and pressed play.

 _“Hermes,_ this is Annie Montrose. I know you’re still a long way from home, but I wanted to give you enough time to start preparing.”

“Preparing?” Watney repeated.

Martinez elbowed him. “Shh.”

“As you’ve probably guessed by now, the PR storm when you get back home is going to be, well. Insane.”

Watney snorted.

“You’ll all have to go on interviews- Watney especially,” Annie continued. “So I’d advise you start preparing yourself. And Watney, there should be an email for you with a few questions. I didn’t want you being bombarded the moment you set foot back on _Hermes,_ but the PR team pushed this. Just fill out what you can and send it back to us.”

Watney ignored the four pairs of eyes staring at him. He was suddenly very glad Beck wasn’t here.

“Stay safe,” Annie finished. “Montrose out.”

“Well,” Watney said, “this should be fun.”

“All your personal files should be transferred over within the next ten minutes,” Johanssen said, closing the window. “Anyone want dibs on the big screen?”

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Martinez said, shrugging.

“Sure thing.” Johanssen slid out of her chair. Martinez wriggled past Mark and took her place eagerly.

“Oh, hey, Lewis.” As Watney and Vogel both retreated from the room, Johanssen stopped Lewis. “Can you, uh. Tell Beck he’s got a message from his parents?”

Lewis shrugged. “I guess. Is there some reason you can’t?”

Johanssen looked down at the ground, cheeks reddening. “I’d, uh. Rather not.”

Lewis looked over Johanssen’s shoulder in time to see Watney narrow his eyes before ducking outside the doorway. Johanssen must have guessed what it was she was looking at, because she folded her arms defensively.

“Johanssen?” Lewis said, warningly. “I know I said I wasn’t mad, as long as you kept this from interfering with your duties. But if this is going to affect your performance-”

“It’s not, it’s not,” Johanssen said, holding up her hands. “No, I just-”

“I don’t care what happened,” Lewis added, steamrolling over whatever it was she was about to say. “Fix it. I don’t care what you two get up to, but handle it like goddamn adults.”

Johanssen sighed. “Yes, Commander.”

* * *

"Watney."

Startled, Watney almost dropped the packet of freeze fried strawberries he was eating as Vogel clapped him on the shoulder. The Rec was barely enough to seat six, but it had ample space for two. Watney was sat in front of his computer, going through the list of questions and ranking them in order of magnitude. Vogel, who had managed to slip in unannounced, was now sat next to him.

"Beck knows you eat the berries?" he asked, skeptically.

"I'll let him know," Watney said, shrugging. He poured out a couple of strawberry slices into his hand and held them out, but Vogel shook his head.

"I have eaten already," he said, firmly.

"Suit yourself." Watney tipped them into the back of his mouth. Vogel raised an eyebrow. Watney made a vague _what?_ gesture with his arms. "A pack of strawberries isn't gonna kill me," he said, laughing a little.

"We are only caring about you," Vogel said.

Watney highlighted the entirety of question fourteen (“when were you the most frightened”) and clicked _strikeout._

“There is still _kakao_ left,” Vogel said. “We saved it for your return.”

Watney cracked a smile. “So you remembered my sweet tooth.”

 _"Ja,"_ Vogel confirmed, with a nod. "Though, we could not save all the sweets from Martinez."

"I'm amazed you even tried," Watney said, highlighting question seventeen ("who were you the most excited to hear from?") and typing _"DT"_ underneath it.

"I will defend the rest," Vogel promised, patting Watney's shoulder again.

"Fight the good fight," Watney said, smiling even as he continued down the list of questions.

Apart from Watney, Vogel was the most even-tempered of the crew when faced with uncomfortable situations. Which was why he didn't say anything else as he crossed his legs and reached for the packet of freeze dried strawberries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((ohhh at long long last, a chapter thats longer than 1k  
> i can brEATHE again))  
> ((also vogel is my sweet space child "i have the computer problem" yES YOU DO))  
> [((blog?))](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com)
> 
> [EDIT] ((HAHA WHOOPS IM A PLAGARIST- all of the amazing conspiracy theories came from [THIS POST](http://findingbarnes.tumblr.com/post/129364951743/but-can-you-imagine-the-amount-of-conspiracy) and were made by [findingbarnes.](http://www.findingbarnes.tumblr.com) [(see i asked permission im not a terrible person i prom i s e)](http://findingbarnes.tumblr.com/post/133549554978/hey-would-you-mind-if-i-used-some-of-your-ideas) ))


	14. Chapter 14

  **Log Entry: Mission Day 729**

A "few questions" my _ass._

This is ridiculous. We've still got, what, eight and a half more months to go? And NASA sends over a message about preparing for the PR storm, Jesus. I don't have to listen to them to know what they're going to say. They're going to blame Lewis for leaving me behind. Which will be stupid, because none of this was anyone's fault. But it'll make a good story if they open with it, so that's what they're going to do.

At least the rest of them don't have this bullshit to deal with.

A few questions, they said. Who calls _fifty six questions_ "a few"?

Question one. "If you could have had any one person from your team stranded with you, who would it have been?"

God, this is going to take forever.

I may as well just get this over with while I'm still alive. Because I won't be for much longer.

**Log Entry: Mission Day 729 (2)**

Question 18: "If you had to, would you do it all over again?"

God, people are stupid.

**Log Entry: Mission Day 729 (3)**

I'm surprised they didn't add "if the rest of your crew had died, would you eat them to survive" on here. Ha, they should talk to Johanssen about that one.

On second thought, they probably shouldn't.

**Log Entry: Mission Day 729 (4)**

Oh, yeah, since this is my last will and testament:

Martinez gets all my stuff. With the exception of the old clothes I was wearing when I was rescued, which haven't been cleaned since. Well, not all of it. I used my old underwear and some toilet paper (the fancy astronaut kind, not the shitty single ply kind) to sprout a new basil plant out of it. The rest of it was supposed to have been ejected by now, but I've been holding onto them.

By "holding onto them", I mean they've been sitting in the back corner of my storage container in my bunk. And what with the heat in there, they're bound to have evolved into some kind of horrible space-stink creature by now.

Which is why I'm dedicating them to my dear friend Dr. Chris Beck.

Since he's a biologist, and all. I'm sure he'll appreciate the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a word on timing (feat. unnecessary page references!):  
> -it's mission day 687 when they pick him up, which means it took them 22.5 months to travel to mars (and spend six days on mars), return to earth for the flyby, and then travel all the way back to mars. which means each trip took roughly 7.5 months. HOWEVER on page 49, when the Hermes is on its way back from mars, (which comes immediately after mark's entry on sol 42, but is later stated that they've been watching him since sol 49 (p.129)- they state that the Hermes crew still has _ten months_ left until they return to earth.  
> -(also a quick lazy google search tells me it'd be six months of travel between earth and mars)  
> -in conclusion: I'm just gonna go with ten months from picking up Mark until they get back to earth, because eh  
> -which means that their final mission day will be somewhere around 991 (which just about fits up with vogel's "if we do this, it would be over one thousand days of space" (p.211)  
> (edit: ok on the last page mark litERALLY SAYS it's gonna take 211 days to get back to earth im an IDIOT)  
> -another note: for some reason, I messed up the numbering of the days; after day 721 I went back to day 713- fixed now!  
> -shit my author's notes can't be longer than my ACTUAL FIC cmon
> 
> also [CHECK OUT THIS ARTICLE ABOUT ASTRONAUTS' LAUNDRY](http://www.nasa.gov/vision/space/livinginspace/Astronaut_Laundry.html)


	15. Chapter 15

"Watney," Beck said, "I need to talk to you."

Watney turned, pressing a hand to his chest and batting his eyelashes. "Can it be?" he gasped, "have you finally found the courage to…" He bit his fist dramatically, leaning back. "... _pop the question?"_

"Cut the bull," Watney." Beck folded his arms. "You've been sneaking oxymorphone out of my supplies, haven't you?"

"Okay, not the question I was expecting."

_"Watney."_

"You know, if I had a dollar for every time someone's said my name like that since I left Mars, I'd have... probably about eleven dollars."

"This isn't a joke, Watney."

"Well, it kinda sounds like one."

"The last thing we need on this mission is a goddamn drug addict."

Watney scoffed. "You think I'm an idiot? I'm not addicted, Beck."

"Yeah?" Beck raised an eyebrow. "Prove it."

"What?"

"I said prove it,” Beck repeated, narrowing his eyes. "You say you're not addicted, fine. You go cold turkey without batting an eyelash, then I'll believe you."

Watney made a _tschk_ sound, tipping his head back and groaning. "Come on, Beck, that's not fair. I _need_ it."

Beck raised an eyebrow. “You’re not helping your case.”

"I'm not addicted!" Watney threw up his hands in a vague frustrated gesture.

"So what the hell do you need it for?" Beck demanded.

"I need it to _sleep."_

Beck stared. Watney’s arms landed at his sides uselessly, fists clenching and unclenching, tightening and loosening.

"To,” he stammered, not meeting Beck’s eyes. “To go one fucking night without waking up without dust between my fingers, for _fuck's sake."_

"Watney..." Beck bit his lip. "Watney, I-"

"Didn't know," Watney finished for him.

 _“Should have seen,”_ Beck pressed. “I’m the doctor, for Chrissake.”

“Language,” Watney teased.

“Fuck language,” Beck spat, and Watney blinked in surprise. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t a problem,” Watney said, shrugging.

“You’ve been taking oxymorphone for a month and a half. It’s a problem.”

“It’s _not,”_ Watney snapped. “I took care of it; ergo, it’s _not_ a problem.”

“You call oxymorphone ‘taking care of it’?”

“Hey, whatever works.”

“Watney.” Beck pinched the bridge of his nose. “You _know_ what’ll happen if Lewis finds out about this,” he warned.

Watney rolled his eyes. “Please. Not like she can fire me.”

“No,” Beck conceded. “But she could suspend you indefinitely from any and all of your duties. You’d essentially be sentenced to bed rest, with the exception of meals, for months- if not the rest of the mission.”

Watney stared at Beck for a moment, eyes burning with something akin to resentment. It was the first time Beck had ever seen him look anything other than downright jovial.

“This is going against my better judgement as a doctor,” Beck continued, rubbing his temples. “But. If you stop now- I mean actually stop- then I won’t tell the Commander.”

Watney blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Dead,” Beck said, nodding. “I want regular check-ups. And I want back however much you’ve got stashed away. And if I see a single milligram missing, I’ll go straight to Lewis and tell her, got it?”

“Check-ups?” Watney repeated, weakly.

“It’s almost time for your next medical eval, anyway.” Beck shrugged.

Watney groaned. “Next, you’ll be telling me I’m due for a Space Prostate Exam,” he grumbled.

“…Later,” Beck said, clearing his throat. “What’ll it be, Watney?”

“Why are you helping me?” Watney demanded, instead of agreeing. “You said it yourself, it’s against your better judgement. And I really hope you were joking about that last bit.”

Beck sighed.

“Because I can’t stand your goddamn puppy dog eyes. And god knows if Lewis won’t let you take care of your stupid plants, you’ll be walking around with them for _weeks.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((beck wtf kind of a doctor even are you  
> geez))
> 
> ((p.s. this is really not sound medical advice))  
> ((p.p.s. as of rn, i dont plan on including space porn in this fic, but THINGS CHANGE))
> 
> [((blog?))](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com)


	16. Chapter 16

It was nearing the peak of the Ares III crew's sleep cycle. The ship was primed to wake the Commander if even one of the instruments showed an interesting reading. Five crewmembers slept soundly, unaware.

Mark Watney woke alone with a start, chest heaving.

With trembling hands, he fumbled with the straps that tethered him to the wall beside his plants. After a few attempts, they released. Panting, Watney pushed himself off from the wall, blinking to steady himself. He counted the rows of plants, letting the steady stream of numbers calm his mind, before shaking his head. He reached for his computer, which was tucked above the ferns. Still shaking, he pushed himself out of the botany lab and drifted down the hallway towards the Semicone-A ladder. After sliding down the ladder and landing in Semicone-A, he stumbled sleepily towards the Rec.

Watney was no stranger to nightmares, especially now, but he couldn't shake off the unrelenting panic. Panic for what, exactly, he couldn't say. It hardly mattered, anyway. Whatever it was for, he knew his heart rate wouldn't be back to normal for another half hour, at least. The least he could do was use the time productively- he might be able to finish another few of those questions, he reasoned, flopping  into an empty chair and setting his computer up on the Rec table. 

He inhaled through his teeth, managed to hold the breath for a few seconds, and shattered it out before he had time to think.

Okay, he thought, breathing exercises clearly weren't going to be any help here.

Booting his computer up, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, grateful at least for the silence.

Except that five was now four, and Mark Watney was not alone at all.

"I told you," he muttered, as a hand hovered anxiously over his shoulder. He batted it away, impatiently.

"Watney-"

"Shut up," Watney said. "Shut- just-" He squeezed his eyes shut. “Just give me a minute.”

Obediently, Beck didn’t reply. He pulled out the adjacent chair and sat, just watching.

Watney, face screwed up in concentration, tried to control his breathing once more. He rubbed his palm over his forehead, wiping away the layer of cold sweat that had collected. Wordlessly, Beck stared.

After a few moments, Watney’s face relaxed and he sat back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling.

“God, _fuck_ space,” he croaked.

Beck cleared his throat. “I'm not going to make a 'safe sex' joke, but you're tempting me," he said.

Watney snorted. “Right, yeah. Don't want to get space syphilis. Gotta be careful when you fuck space."

“I might have been thinking it,” Beck said, “But you said it, not me.”

Watney laughed weakly. “By the way,” he said. “The watching-me-sleep thing? Kind of crosses the line from ‘concerned doctor’ into ‘slightly creepy friend’.”

“I wasn’t watching you sleep,” Beck scoffed.

“You were watching my biosensors,” Watney countered. “Same difference.”

“Not obsessively,” Beck protested. “Just- I set them to set off an alarm if your heartrate was elevated- in case something happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Watney said. The fact that he didn’t believe it didn’t stop him from giving Beck his second best glare.

“You’re awake,” Beck pointed out.

“I’m fine,” Watney snapped. The fact that he didn’t believe it didn’t stop him from giving Beck his third best glare.

Beck sighed. “This can’t keep happening.”

Watney fixed him with his second best glare.

“As your doctor,” Beck started, and Watney wrinkled his nose. Beck rolled his eyes. “Look, I know this may come as a shock to you, but some of us on this tin can actually care about your stupid ass,” he huffed. “And maybe this is cheating, but _since I’m your doctor,_ I’m going to make you do what I say.”

“Come _on.”_

“And I say,” Beck said, with a tone of finality, “that I have a… potential solution.”

“Yeah, why don’t you write that down in your medical journal?” Watney snapped. “I’m sure you’ll get extra points for your vocabulary.”

“You’re not making this easier for anyone,” Beck said.

Watney snorted.

“Fine,” he said. “Would you aspire to inform me of your brilliantly envisaged proposition?"

Beck sighed.

* * *

“For the record,” Watney grumbled, “your bed smells terrible.”

“You lost the right to complain about anyone’s odor when you turned up smelling like you’d bathed in your own shit for a month,” Beck muttered back, smirking.

“I _did,”_ Watney shot back.

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Beck said. “You’ll wake the rest of the ship up with that mouth of yours.”

Watney opened his mouth to retort back, but Beck ran him over.

 _“Sleep,”_ he repeated, switching off the light.

“For the record," Watney said, “I’m only doing this because you’re making me.”

“Noted,” Beck said, offering him the edge of the blanket.

Watney took it reluctantly, drawing the blanket over himself. Not built for more than one person, it barely covered them both. But Beck’s bunk was warm enough that neither of them minded. They lay in silence- near silence, at least; it was silence apart from Watney’s occasional sniffs and turns- for perhaps half an hour before Beck let out a gentle snore.  

Watney rolled over to face Beck. The only light in the room came from the crack under the door, but it was enough to see by with adjusted eyes. Beck’s hair, under the full force of simulated gravity, had fallen in front of his eyes, and it ruffled gently as he breathed. Every few breaths, he snuffled softly.

Watney allowed himself a smile. He turned back over, making sure the blanket was still covering them both, and closed his eyes.

* * *

“I told you- I told-  _told_ you,” Watney stammered, tugging the edge of the blanket around himself. He lost his grip and the blanket fell to the floor. “I told you this wouldn’t work,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“It worked,” Beck said.  

“You were trying to stop me from- stop _this_ from happening,” Watney spat. A shiver ran down his spine and he shuddered, arms tensing.

“I never said that.”

“Well, then, what the hell did you think would happen?” Watney demanded.

“This,” Beck said.

And suddenly there were arms around Watney’s waist- warm, steady, and gentle. Beck’s hands rested over Watney’s stomach. For a moment, neither of them moved. Watney let out his breath, and Beck’s hands sank back in tandem, barely adding pressure to his chest at all.

And then Beck seemed to regret his decision, because his hands began to retract back.

Before they had the chance to move past his hipbones, Watney grabbed them.

Beck didn’t move.

Slowly- as if moving any faster would startle them away- Watney pulled Beck’s hands back so they fell on his stomach. He held them there for a moment, just breathing, before letting go.

Before he closed his eyes again, he thought he felt just the barest touch of pressure from Beck’s fingertips.

But then again, he thought to himself, that was probably just his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((I'm cheating, I should be making more log entries T.T but the temptation to do another regular format scene was too great, and now LOOK WHAT IVE DONE  
> also if anyone has ideas for NASA interview questions, pls let me know, im properly stumped for ideas  
> bonus points if they're blatantly invasive and insensitive))
> 
> ((oh yeah the space syphilis part was actually part of an omegle chat I had, I think the other person was Beck- yes theres an omegle tag for beckwatney, do noT JUDGE))  
> ((one last nitpick- going down the ladder to semicone-a goes to johanssen's station, which has 0.2-g and is a smaller room (p.143). I don't think its ever stated WHERE the rec is, so for this story's purposes, it's just???? also accessible by the semicone-a ladder. idk))


	17. Chapter 17

**Log Entry: Mission Day 730**

So, good news and bad news. Well, more like bad news and good news. Okay, it's really bad news and good news and bad news and good news and bad news. And when I say bad news, I mean _really_ bad news. Or maybe that's just me being dramatic.

To simplify:

Bad news: Beck finally got off his ass and took inventory of his supplies, which means he knows I've been pinching oxymorphone for the last month. Okay, 'pinching' isn't the right term for it. How about 'hoarding handfuls of it in my personal affects bin'? There we go.

Good news: For some reason, he wussed out and didn't tell Lewis about it. Which means I don't have to do a single walk of shame. I mean the kind you do when you've secretly been taking drugs on a spaceship behind your crewmates' backs. It's a thing, trust me.

Bad news: His only condition for not telling Lewis is that he's monitoring me constantly to make sure I'm not actually addicted and I'm not going to keep taking it and/or turn into a sweaty drooling rehab case in space. And that includes watching me when I sleep.

Good news: His solution for _that_ is to make me sleep with _him._ As in, in his bed. Next to him. Sharing the same blanket.

Bad news: Now I'm sleeping with him. In his bed. Next to him. Sharing the same blanket.

Not to get too technical about it- because there's a reason there aren't actually fifty three log entries on Martian masturbation and that reason is I literally wouldn't be caught dead talking about that- but we do have a shower on board (with the most artificial gravity we can give it), and all of us have needs, and none of us talk about it. Well, Beck might write about it in his damn medical notes, but that's because he's Beck, and he's weird.

Side note- we might not talk about it, but NASA won't shut up about it. There's an entire ten-or-so page packet on how we can't jack off anywhere else, because it'll just get stuck places and start fires, and how fucking embarrassing would it be to die in a spaceship crash because your jizz got stuck in one of the engines?

But yeah, back to the bad news. I'm going to have to take a lot more showers. Which is fine, I mean, it's not like I'm wasting water or anything. It just means I'll be wasting a hell of a lot more of my personal time.

Well. I say 'wasting'. It'll be well spent.

This is weird. I'm going to stop talking about my dick, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((.......  
> mark you might want to hold onto that thought about that walk of shame  
> uh  
> just sayin))
> 
> ((happy thanksgiving, everyone!!! i for one am super grateful for my small space child))  
> [((blog?))](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com)


	18. Chapter 18

Chris Beck awoke to the absolute knowledge that they had drifted off course and were now flying directly into the sun. After a moment of thought, he realized there was a simpler explanation- Mark Watney, over the span of six or so hours they'd been asleep so far, had transformed into an octopus.

Lying on his back, Chris twitched his left foot experimentally. His toes obeyed, but his leg stayed resolutely in the same place. Mark's legs, which were hugging his own leg firmly, didn't move, even as Chris tried to jostle his leg out of place. Mark's head was tucked firmly in Chris's neck, breath steady on his skin. He didn't even snore, the perfect bastard. His breath was hot and warm on Chris's neck, and Chris shivered.

One of Mark's arms was draped over Chris's chest, fingers brushing his jaw. The other arm had somehow managed to slide under Chris's entire body, hand resting under his right side. Chris wondered vaguely to himself how that could possibly be comfortable.

But he didn't have much time to consider the thought, because Mark was suddenly moving.

Chris took the opportunity to untangle himself from Mark's limbs, arching his back up off the bunk and nudging Mark's hand out from underneath him. Still unconscious, Mark took the hint. He mumbled something incoherent, legs squeezing tighter around Chris's leg.

Chris winced, trying to tug his leg out of Mark's grip.

But Mark wasn't having any of it. The hand that had been barely brushing Chris's jaw shifted, fingers coming to rest over his lips. Another jostle, and Mark's hand entirely covered his mouth.

"Nnf," Chris mumbled, not wanting to wake Mark by moving him too much. _"Off."_

Mark seemed to understand that Chris had spoken, but he clearly didn't understand _what,_ because he mashed his hand against Chris's mouth. Two of Mark's fingers slipped past Chris's lips, and he let out another incoherent mumble-sigh.

Mind made up, Chris carefully pried Mark's hand off of his mouth, wrinkling his nose at the trail of spit that followed them.

"Gross," he muttered, setting Mark's hand back down around his waist. 

Mark hummed, tightening his grip. His body heat was nearly unbearable; Chris obviously wasn't getting back to sleep like this. They could be camped up in an unheated rover on Mars and Mark would still probably produce enough body heat for them both. Even if his body heat wasn't enough, his breath would certainly be.

Speaking of which.

Still breathing into Chris's neck, Mark huffed gently. He tightened his hold around Chris's waist, letting out a small _hnnnf_ sound. The hand that was tucked behind Chris's chest suddenly grabbed at his sleep shirt, fingernails digging in.

It took a monumental effort not to cry out as Mark seized, but Chris managed it. He was used to Watney's nightmares by now- and even if he wasn't, he was a goddamn doctor, wasn't he?

He took hold of Mark's hand, prying it off of his chest, and rolled over to face him. Mark's head fell onto the pillow as Chris turned, eyes clamped shut in what was undoubtedly terror. Chris shifted so they were closer together, and tried to mimic Mark's position from before. Still facing him, Chris wrapped his arms around Mark and held him firmly.

Instantly, Mark responded.

He latched onto Chris with all he had- legs, arms, head, the works. Having been prepared for it this time, it was much easier not to grunt or make any other sound that might wake Mark- because the last thing he wanted to do was wake him. If this went smoothly, Mark would drift back to sleep and wake up without any memory of having a nightmare in the first place.

Chris slid his hand up and down Mark's back, gently. Still tense, Mark stopped shaking at the sensation. His hands and legs were still locked into place, but the breath he let out was steady, now. Sensing progress, Chris continued the gentle contact.

Until, at last, Mark let out a long breath, and relaxed.

Relieved, Chris gave his shoulder a gentle pat and moved to pull away.

Mark huffed softly, hold tightening ever so slightly.

Chris considered the situation.

This position was perhaps a little less comfortable than the last, but not to the point where he wouldn't be able to sleep. And the heat really wasn't so bad, anymore. The blanket was mostly on Mark, now, so there wasn't too much insulation.

All right, he decided to himself. Just this once. He sighed, squeezing Mark back and sliding his eyes shut.

And then Mark moved again.

Preparing himself for the beginnings of another nightmare, Chris opened his eyes. He caught the slightest glimpse of Mark, barely lit by the light that leaked from under the door, before he couldn't see again.

Because Mark Watney was kissing him soundly.

If it took a considerable amount of effort to keep himself from making a sound when Mark began a nightmare, it took a herculean effort to keep himself from downright _panicking._ As it happened, he froze, staying stock still as Mark continued to kiss him, and just stared.

It wasn't harsh, by any definition of the word. No, this was probably the gentlest kiss Chris had ever had (with the exception of his first kiss, which had also been Jessica Denzel's first kiss as well.) Chris was almost jealous of Mark's unconscious ability; he'd only dreamed of kisses like this before.

Well, he thought dully, Mark was probably dreaming the same.

After a moment or two, it became apparent that staying still wasn't going to produce any results. Like it or not, Chris had to do something.

But here was the thing: Chris Beck was just a little bit in love with Mark Watney.

It was perfectly fine, of course. Half the planet was in love with Watney, too. Who wouldn't be? With his perfect charm, his sense of humor, his jawline, blah blah blah. There were blogs dedicated to him. Pictures drawn of him. Hell, there were _paintings_ drawn of him. If Chris was being perfectly honest with himself, he was just a little bit jealous.

It didn't make him see Mark any differently, of course. The man was still insufferably stubborn- he hardly ever followed Chris's medical advice for more than a few days, and he did things like… well, like snuggling up to Chris in the dead of night and kissing him while he was asleep.

Okay, so they weren’t _all_ like that. Sometimes it was just little things. Like looking so goddamn _sad_ all the time when he’d come back, and not saying a goddamn word about it. Like making that silent happy face that meant he was happy but he didn’t want to say it, whenever Chris took the opportunity to brush arms with him. Or smiling like a loon whenever Chris handed him something and intentionally brushed their fingers together. Or doing that _thing_ whenever Chris happened to be standing next to him, where he’d sort of lean over so their sides were flush against one another.

Or, yeah, snuggling up to Chris in the dead of night and kissing him while he was asleep.

They picked at him, every single time. He was a doctor, of course- he was a goddamn _astronaut,_ for Chrissake- so he had no trouble keeping a professional manner. No matter what Mark’s hands felt like against his own, he didn’t so much as bat his eye when they touched. Because Mark needed stability as much as he needed physical contact, and Chris was more than happy to provide both.

Only, Mark was asleep.

And Chris was still human.

So really, he thought to himself, as he swallowed back whatever part of him that was screaming _oh my god what the hell are you doing STOP-_ and cupped Mark’s jaw to kiss him back, _really_ , no one could blame him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((uuuhhh  
> ...  
> uuUUUUHHHHH))


	19. Chapter 19

**Log Entry: Mission Day 735**

I just decided something.

It's been a few nights, now, and you know what? I actually like sleeping with Beck.

It's not as bad as I thought it would be. He doesn't smell bad, he doesn't fidget too much, he doesn't mind when _I_ fidget too much, and I've been able to sleep like a normal human being for almost a week, now. I don't remember having any nightmares, which means that I've either stopped having them in the first place, or they're getting so weak that I'm not even remembering them. I actually asked Beck earlier if he knew if I was still having nightmares, but he just said he was asleep.

But whatever. Whichever it is, it's progress. And hey, I'm not even showing signs of withdrawl! Partly because I was only taking the oxymorphone at night (not doping myself up during the day), and partly because I wasn't addicted in the first place. In your face, Beck.

Speaking of that- the other day I woke up with my entire arm over Beck's face. I don't think he even noticed.

Speaking of things I didn't notice! Where the hell is Martinez sleeping?

I can't believe I'm just realizing this now. Both Martinez's and my bunks are unusable, because they're ovens right now and we don't have another maintenance run in our schedules for another few weeks. I mean, not that we don't still look around and make sure the ship isn't falling apart. But we're booked most of the day for science shit, and none of us really want to use up all of our free time doing more work.

Lewis, Johanssen, and Beck all have their bunks. Obviously I don't have to worry about where to sleep because Beck's taken care of that problem. But what about Martinez?

He's not in Airlock 2, because Lewis would murder him. He's not in my plant room, because none of my plants have mysteriously died. And trust me, if they'd come in contact with his foot smell- I mean the kind where he actually takes his socks off and lets the beast free- they'd be long gone by now. But Beck is still as gorgeous as ever.

Mandrake Beck, I mean.

Speaking of which, Rasputin is about to flower. He's got a bud and everything. I think it's only going to be another day or so until I move the ferns, Remus, and Rover out to Airlock 2. I'm going to start giving Beck a lower nutrient EC, just until Rasputin blooms. Then I'll put him back on a normal diet. I mean, I don't want to starve him, I just need to slow him down so he'll still be blooming by the time Rasputin joins the party. Yeah, I had a hell of a time writing that down into my botany notes. Mind you, those are sent not only to Lewis, but also directly to NASA, and NASA's not a big fan of four letter words. Besides "NASA."

So "Rasputin's gynoecium about to see some motherfucking action, prepping botany lab for transformation into love room" turned into "Rasputin displaying signs of flowering, prepping botany lab for transport."

Fuck you, NASA.

Oh, right, I almost forgot again. Where the fuck is Martinez sleeping?

Because Johanssen's back in her own bunk. And I don't even want to know why the fuck she's not sleeping with Beck. You know, like I am.

That's a lie, actually. I want to know all the sordid details. But that's not the point.

What if he's sleeping with Johanssen?

Johanssen's probably strong enough to sleep in the same room as Martinez- hell, she's probably scary enough to make him keep his socks on. I mean, she was prepared to watch everyone else die and _eat their bodies to survive_ if the resupply probe didn't dock, back when they were looping around earth to come get me. If she wanted me to leave my socks on, I wouldn't take them off under pain of death.

But hey, that means if whatever happened with her and Beck was bad enough to make her voluntarily sleep in the same room as Martinez, it must be pretty bad.

For the record: I don't like starting drama. I don't like being in drama.

But hell if I don't want every single goddamn detail.

**Log Entry: Mission Day 735 (2)**

God, I still have these stupid things to go through.

Question 20: _"Many people have said that your experience sounds like their worst nightmare. What is your worst nightmare?"_

I can't very well send back "drowning in a sea of unsalted mashed potatoes, which are all throbbing along to the beat of _Staying Alive,"_ can I? I mean, that wasn't really the worst one, but it ranks pretty high.

Funnily enough, I actually still like mashed potatoes. At least, the tube that's supposed to taste like 'em.

Moving on. Question 21: _"Is there anything you miss about Mars?"_

Yeah, the goddamn silence. Actually, it was kind of nice when _Pathfinder_ blew a fuse- I didn't have to listen to NASA hound me day in and day out anymore. Unlike now.

Question 22: _"How do you plan to cope with the post-traumatic recovery of spending so long surviving alone?"_

Fuck's sake.

**Log Entry: Mission Day 735 (3)**

Question 29: _"Would you consider contributing to a Bachelor Auction to help a charity targeted towards youth education?"_

Now we're talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((mmhmm im sure he didn't notice a thing mark- youve got nothing to worry about))  
> ((CREDIT TIME!! The "what is your worst nightmare", "what do you miss about mars", and the bachelor auction questions all came from [Nonnica!](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/nonnica/pseuds/nonnica) Thank you!  
> happy.... idk, black friday  
> comments are love <3))  
> [((blog?))](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com)  
> ((edit: holy shit thank you guys for 100 followers on the blog what are you even doing)


	20. Chapter 20

Mark Watney hummed an almost familiar tune to himself as he floated down the hallway towards the Botany room. Today was a big day, after all. If he had been back on Mars, he would have given today an elaborate name- perhaps he'd have made it an official Martian holiday, just for the fun of it. But he was on the _Hermes,_ now. And as much as he cared about relocating plants, he doubted it would be news enough to make a national holiday back home.

He pushed himself along the side walls, carefully maintaining his speed, before reaching the entrance and pushing himself through.

He stopped short in the doorway, staring at Martinez and Johanssen. The trays of plants that were usually kept strapped to the wall were suspended at eye level in the middle of the room. Johanssen was leaning down to unstrap the last plot of plants- the ferns- and Martinez was arranging the removed plots into a neat stack.

"What the hell are you doing?" Watney said, gripping the doorframe. Startled, Johanssen abandoned the last plot and shot back up, floating next to Martinez.

"We're... moving the plants," she said.

 _"My_ plants," Watney corrected. "Why?"

"Well, because." Johanssen cleared her throat. "They're flowering now, and last time they flowered-"

"You ran tests with a constant light source, yeah," Watney finished. "I read Beck's notes."

"So," Johanssen said, nodding to the plants in question. "Now that they're flowering again, we're moving them so we can observe the difference in growth with partial to no light-"

"Yeah, I know." Watney looked at Martinez, at Johanssen, and finally at the trays of plants suspended between them. Johanssen didn't say anything. Martinez sighed.

"We didn't want you to have to, you know, worry about it," he said, shrugging. "Like, hey, you're a stressed parent, you just want some time to yourself. So we're your babysitters." He gestured to the plants. "We gotta take care of these little guys for you."

"Right, and I'm paying you fifteen cents an hour." Watney scowled. "Did you think I couldn't have done this myself?"

"Watney," Johanssen said, shaking her head. "We were just trying to help."

"And the best way to do that was to get my botany notes from Lewis and, what, take over?" Watney folded his arms. 

Johanssen looked to Martinez, who shrugged in return.

"I'll move them myself," Watney said, drifting a few inches to the right now that he wasn't holding onto anything. "Put my plants back."

Martinez frowned. "But-"

"I'm waiting," Watney said.

"Come on," Johanssen said, nudging Martinez's side. Martinez floated to the left, confused.

"Really, man?" he said, pushing back on the wall to stop himself from crashing into it. "Fifteen cents?"

"Fourteen, if you don't get a move on."

"All right, all right, geez."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((this and the next "chapter" will be short, so ill post the next one up tomorrow morning  
> working up to something  
> hint: johanssen finally gets the screen time she deserves))
> 
> ((i hate calling these chapters, ffs))


	21. Chapter 21

**Log Entry: Mission Day 738**

Beck is dead.

I don't believe it.

I knew the low nutrient EC didn't bode well with him, but he looked like he was on the mend. Back on day 736, anyway. You know, before Johanssen and Martinez apparently decided I wasn't a good enough botanist for them anymore.

After that fiasco, I moved the others out to Airlock two, leaving two of the ferns, Remus the tomato, and Mandrake Beck in the botany lab. I made sure they were rigged properly, because they're all in the same plot now instead of on different levels, and then I made a few final observatory notes before shutting off the lights and leaving them there. That was on day 737.

Now it's day 738, and Beck is dead.

I mean properly dead. I can't just stick him in the sun and give him extra water for a week and hope he turns over a new leaf (don't do that, by the way, you'll just rot your roots.) Not that these could get much more rotten, though.

We can't grow plants in dirt up here, obviously. It would get everywhere and in everything, even if whatever was growing was able to grab onto it with roots. It's just impractical. The ISS has this big thing they use to do tests with plants, and they've done all sorts of tests with stuff like lettuce, radishes, peas, whatever. (I guess they haven't done mandrakes yet, because otherwise they wouldn't need us testing it up here.) And guess what it's called. No, really. Guess.

I might not be the biggest botany nerd in the world, after all. Because whoever chose to name the ISS's plant growth system "VEGGIE" is a hundred times more of a dork than I am. It doesn't even stand for anything special, it's just the "Vegetable Production System." The least they could have done was officially name it something like the "Vegetable-Engineered Galactic Germinating: Improved Efficiency" machine. System. Whatever.

The _Hermes_ doesn't have enough room or enough renewable power for anything like the VEGGIE, so we just grow plants the old fashioned way- with clear plastic, wet paper towels, and nutrient supplements.

Beck Jr. (aka: Failed Dick Lichen) is in a petri dish, though. He's special.

But anyway. Mandrakes are now extinct in space.

Though technically Earth is still in space, so that's a moot point.

Whatever.

Beck's roots are all dry and white, they won't take water. I broke off a few of them when I was pulling the towel back to check. The main root is still sort of intact, but it's dry as anything. The little roots breaking off on the sides are dry and brittle; some of them came off on the towel, some of them broke when I touched them. The leaves are turning brown at the ends and they're curling in. They aren't dry yet, but they'll get there pretty soon.

Something must have happened when Martinez and Johanssen tried to move him. I don't know what, but something.

I'll figure it out later. Right now, I have to go write Beck's eulogy down in my botany notes.

**Log Entry: Mission Day 738 (2)**

Question 30:  _"During your experience, did you ever reach a point where you felt like giving up?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((dun dun duNNNN  
> i planned it from the start pls dont hate me  
> mandrake beck will live on in all of our hearts  
> especially mark's))
> 
> ((also yes there actually is a veg growing system in space called VEGGIE im not kidding  
> [heres](http://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/station/research/news/veggie.html) an article nasa wrote about VEGGIE  
> [here's one they wrote just about plants in space](http://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/station/research/10-074.html)  
> and [here's a more detailed article on what VEGGIE is and what it actually does](https://www.nasa.gov/content/veggie-plant-growth-system-activated-on-international-space-station)  
> i admit i didn't do any research into how plants grow in space when i started writing this, so :/  
> my details might not be all 100% accurate pls dont sue me))
> 
> ((CREDIT TIME! The "giving up" question was suggested by [tigerfish!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerfish/pseuds/tigerfish) Thank you!!))  
> ((reminder- if you have any ideas for questions (the more insensitive the better), please let me know!!!))


	22. Chapter 22

"You're tense."

“Hm?” As he shouldered on the NASA-issued (and NASA stamped) pajamas- which were lighter weight and much more comfortable than the standard issue clothes NASA had sent them with- Mark looked over his shoulder at Chris.

“Come here,” Chris said, gesturing to the empty bunk beside him.

“Not like I was planning on going anywhere else,” Mark said, shrugging. But he headed over to the bunk anyway, sitting down on the far end. “So what’s that about me? Something about tense?”

“You look terrible,” Chris said bluntly. “Turn around.”

Slightly confused, Mark obeyed and turned so he was sitting cross legged on the bunk, facing the wall. The confusion lasted for another second and a half, before Chris’s hands landed on his shoulders.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ he mumbled, as Chris sat down behind him on the bunk.

“I’m impressed,” Chris said, as he pressed his thumbs _just so_ under Mark’s shoulder blades. “I didn’t think it was possible to build up this much tension in a zero-gravity ship, but you managed it.” He slid his thumbs off and pressed the heels of his palms down instead, working them slowly but firmly against Mark’s skin. “How’s your jaw?” he asked. “Any teeth hurting?”

“Uh,” Mark said, thinking for a moment. “Yeah, actually. The left side’s a little sore.” He lost his breath for a moment as Chris’s fingers pressed in on the sides of his shoulder blades. “There’s a left bottom molar that’s been bugging me for a bit,” he added, after a moment. “Just sometimes, when I eat food that’s not stuffed in tubes.”

“I know you probably didn’t take dental hygiene too seriously,” Chris said. “You know, back on Mars.”

Mark smiled at that. “No,” he admitted, “but I tried to scrape off the plaque every once in a while. Had to chew my nails to keep ‘em from growing too long, but they still worked for chipping off all the gunk.” Mark winced. “Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about that.”

“I’m a doctor, I’ve heard about a lot of things,” Chris said easily, not even batting an eye. “Your teeth should be all right, I don’t think you have any cavities. You’re probably just clenching your jaw.”

Mark nodded.

“Damn,” Chris muttered, sliding his hands up to Mark’s neck. “You’re… really tight.”

“Sorry,” Mark said, automatically.

“You didn’t show up for the data dump,” Chris said, cautiously. “Did something happen?”

Chris pressed the pads of his fingers against Mark’s sternocleidomastoid- the biggest muscle in his neck, the one that ran from just under his ear down to the top of his shoulder. Mark sucked in a breath through his teeth, shoulders going tense. Chris dug his thumbs down between Mark’s shoulder blades, letting him relax.

“Yeah,” Mark breathed, shutting his eyes.

“Feel like talking about it?” Chris prompted gently, slowly adding pressure to Mark’s neck. He didn’t tense this time, so Chris kept going, nudging his fingers in small, gentle circles.

Mark took a slow breath, eyes still closed. “Fuck it,” he muttered. “Sure.”

Chris didn’t press it. He slid his fingers up and down Mark’s neck, taking care not to put too much pressure on his muscles. Working his way up until he was rubbing over the short crop of hair trailing up Mark’s neck, Chris brought his thumbs up to press down on Mark’s trapezius- the muscle that spanned down from the middle of his neck down to his shoulders.

“Johanssen and Martinez killed my mandrake,” Mark said, bitterly.

“They what?”

Mark sighed, shoulders slumping. “I was going to move some of my plants yesterday. But they read my notes and decided they’d do a better job of it. And now my mandrake’s dead.”

“I’m… sorry,” Chris said, spreading his fingers up until they brushed back behind Mark’s ears. Mark grunted in approval, tipping his head forward and clenching his eyes shut again.

“And they didn’t even apologize for it,” Mark continued, frowning. “It was like- like _I_ was supposed to be doing something wrong by being upset in the first place.”

“Lie down,” Chris said, sitting up first before standing. “On your stomach?”

“Oh, yes _please,”_ Mark groaned, not taking even a second to consider refusing. “You know,” he said, shoving the NASA-issued blanket down to the bottom of the bunk as he settled himself on his stomach and propped his head up on his arms, “back when I went to get _Pathfinder,_ on Sol who-the-fuck-cares, I had to spend, like…” He frowned, trying to remember. “Twenty something days cooped up a goddamn rover.”

“Do you mind if I…?” Chris prompted, gesturing with his arms.

“No, go ahead.” Mark didn’t even look up, just rested his head over his arms. It was a little awkward, but Chris managed to fit himself onto the bunk, one leg on either side of Mark’s torso. Once positioned, he shifted back until he was straddling Mark’s legs rather than his stomach.

“Anyway,” Mark said, voice slightly muffled. “My back was so fucked up, you have no idea. I’d have given just about anything for you to have materialized in there with me for one of these."

“Weren’t you in the rover for over-” Chris paused for a moment to remember, as he hitched Mark’s shirt up. “-fifty days, to get to the Ares-4 MAV?”

“I had to sit outside to charge the solar cells,” Mark said, shrugging. He reached down and helped Chris pull his shirt up until it was caught under his armpits. “I fit some stretching into my schedule.”

“Fair enough.” Chris cracked his knuckles before settling his hands down just above Mark’s hipbones. “Do you mind if…?” He tugged at Mark’s shirt.

“No,” Mark said, shaking his head. “Not at all, here-” He pushed himself up, tugging the shirt over his head. “S’ too hot in here with two of us, anyway.”

Chris smiled. “So,” he said, beginning to press his palms down, “you’re mad at Martinez and Johanssen?”

“Not _mad,”_ Mark said. “Just… I don’t know. Okay, yeah. I’m mad.” He rubbed his eyes. “They killed Beck.”

“I- what?” Abruptly, Chris’s hands froze over Mark’s sides.

“No,” Mark said, hurriedly. He twisted to look at Chris over his shoulder. “I mean- no, I mean my mandrake.”

“Your… mandrake,” Chris repeated.

‘Yeah,” Mark said, sheepishly. “Hey, quit looking at me like that. A man survives a year and a half on Mars, he can name his plants whatever the hell he wants.” He turned back around, digging his chin onto his arms.

“Fair enough,” Chris said, smiling though he knew Mark couldn’t see him. “I have to say, I’m flattered.”

“Shaddup,” Mark muttered.

“So, your mandrake,” Chris prompted apologetically, starting to move his hands over Mark’s hipbones again.

“My dead mandrake,” Mark corrected. “I, uh. Long story short. I had him on low nutrients for a while, but he didn’t like that. Then Martinez and Johanssen went in and moved shit around, and now…”

“Right,” Chris said, extrapolating the rest. “So it wasn’t your low nutrient thing that killed him?”

“Well, no,” Mark said. “He would have been fine if they hadn’t-”

“Moved him three feet to the left and then back again?”

Mark groaned. “Oh, god, you’re _counseling_ me.”

“Part of my job,” Chris said, pressing his palms down against Mark’s interior oblique abdominals. Mark hummed in response, letting his head fall limply onto his arms.

“Don’t take any other jobs when you get back home,” he mumbled. “I’m hiring you to do this for the rest of my life.”

“Works for me.” Chris dug his thumbs over Mark’s exterior oblique abdominals. “But you’re still avoiding my point.”

“Look, he’d still be alive if it wasn’t for Johanssen and Martinez, okay?” Mark grumbled, propping his head back up.

“It’s a mandrake,” Chris said blithely.

 _“He_ was _my_ mandrake,” Mark retorted.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Chris said, with perhaps a touch more concern. “But plants are just plants, Mark.”

Mark’s shoulders tensed.

“And, hey.” Chris slid his hands up, right above Mark’s longissimus thoracis. “If you ever miss talking to your old Beck, you can always come talk to this one.”

Mark buried his smile in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((as an apology for killing mandrake beck, have this >1k back massage scene  
> also IVE BEEN SPELLING JOHANSSEN'S NAME WRONG THE _ENTIRE TIME ~~why didnt anyone tell me~~_  
>  i went back through the fic and fixed them all (if you see any, please YELL AT ME TO FIX THEM) and ill be going through the blog to fix them as well  
> also! side note: showers dont currently happen in space but HA ITS 2036-2937 AND THEY HAVE FAKE GRAVITY LETS PRETEND SPACE SHOWERS EXIST  
> [ps there are no showers in space](http://www.asc-csa.gc.ca/eng/astronauts/living-hygiene.asp)  
> im so embarrassed about johanssen's name om g i didnt even notice until i saw the movie again tonight and noticed it was spelled with an E on the bins, then i immediately went home and checked my book and my book said Fuck You))
> 
> ((also in case anyone says "wow this is too shippy and ooc for me LET ME READ YOU A DIRECT QUOTE  
> (p.107) "I've spent so much time seated or lying down, my back is all screwed up. Of all my crewmates, the one I miss most right now is Beck. He'd fix my aching back."  
> I MEAN OBVIOUSLY THAT MEANS BACKRUBS RIGHT))  
> ((more like _Beck_ rubs amirite))


	23. Chapter 23

**Log Entry: Mission Day 739**

One of these days, I'm going to die up here.

From the sheer, dizzying height of my own sexual frustration. And if that ends up not killing me and just, you know, existing, I'll just drown in my own shame instead.

Great. I always feel better with a plan.

All right, all right. Serious time. I'm not going to die from sexual frustration. You know how I know that? Because if it ever could have killed me, last night would have done the trick. And guess what? I'm still alive! Hooray!

What happened, I hear you ask? (Except I don't, because these aren't being sent to NASA and NO ONE IS READING THEM, BECK.)

I guess you could say Beck rubbed some sense into me. Is that even a term? Is it 'knocked some sense into me'? Whatever. I'm not using 'rubbed off on me', even if it's more gramatically correct. I'm not a linguist, okay, I'm a botanist!

But anyway. Just like (several) times before, I've had my tantrum and now I'm over it. Except this time my tantrum was less 'pounding walls and accepting the inevitablilty of death because one more goddamn thing went wrong', and more 'giving martinez and johanssen the silent treatment for two days and sulking because one of my plants died'.

Which is stupid, because it probably wasn't their fault, anyway.

And when I get home, I can buy twenty mandrake plants. Hell, NASA would probably give me as many plant seeds or saplings as I wanted. Can you imagine that? A fraction of NASA's budget, spent towards Mark Watney's garden. I could grow actual tomatoes and eat them. Or cucumbers. You know, cucumbers are pretty easy to grow, all you need is space and sunlight and you don't have to do much. I'd have to make sure there were enough bees nearby, though.

Maybe I could keep bees.

Point is, I've been a dick. I have to go apologize to Johanssen. Maybe not Martinez, because he killed my other mandrakes in the first place (no, he actually killed them, he straight up admits it.) But Johanssen, definitely. And hey, maybe I can get some details on what the fuck is up with her and Beck.

Ugghhhh. I hate being wrong. Especially if I'm wrong because I was stupid.

Here goes nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((short entry, longer scene to follow! ill probably post it later today bc this ones so short))


	24. Chapter 24

Vogel might have been considerate about intruding on personal time, but Mark Watney was not.

Ignoring the door completely (it was open, anyway, so really Johanssen was just asking for someone to walk in and annoy her), Watney strode right through the doorway and plopped beside her on her bunk. The laptop beneath her fingers bounced as his weight hit the bed, but she slapped her hand down on the keyboard in time to keep it from falling.

“So,” Watney said, crossing one leg over the other in a business-like manner and folding his arms.

Johannsen sighed. She took a moment to save, closed the lid of her laptop, and crossed her arms.

“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly. “I- well, Lewis sent me your botany notes from yesterday.” She cleared her throat. “I, um, heard about what happened.”

“I hope I didn’t scare you too much,” Watney said, with just the hint of a smile.

“No, we knew about your, um. Names.” Johannsen set her laptop to the side. “I really am sorry,” she insisted. “If we’d- if I’d known this would have happened, I never would have-”

“Don’t be an idiot, Johannsen. Not your fault,” Watney said, shrugging. “Even without you two messing around, he wasn’t doing too well in the first place. I put him on a low nutrient EC,” he explained. “Because I didn’t want to start my experiment until all of the plants were flowering, and he was off the cycle of the rest of them, so I needed to keep him from growing too quickly and wilting before the others had had a chance to bloom- because they were taking a while-”

He stopped at the look at Johannsen’s face.

“I’m a Reactor Technician, not a botanist,” she said.

“And I’m a botanist, not a chemist,” Watney retorted. “But guess what I spent a year and a half doing?”

“Singing alone to yourself because there was no one around to tell you to shut up?” Johannsen replied, easily. “What?” she said, to Watney’s look of mock offense. “You told me to guess.”

 _“The point is,”_ Watney said, “Beck was a dead man to begin with.” He wrinkled his nose. “A dead Solanoideae. Whatever.”

“Right.” Johannsen looked uneasily at Watney. “Was that… all you wanted to tell me?”

“What the hell happened between you and- and Beck?” Watney blurted out, catching himself on the last word.

“What?” Johannsen barked, tearing her eyes off Watney and flushing pink.

“See, this is what I’m talking about.” Watney frowned. “I thought you two had things all worked out between you.”

Johannsen folded her arms. “We… did,” she said.

“You know what I mean,” Watney huffed. “I thought you were, you know.” Watney waggled his eyebrows, wiggling his shoulders in a manner that was probably supposed to be seductive. Johannsen wasn’t quite certain.

“We… were,” she said after a moment, eyes trained on her lap.

“And?” Watney prompted.

“And now we’re… not.”

“Why?” Watney demanded.

“Because,” Johannsen snapped, finally turning to face Watney. “Because, as it happens, we’re both of us Tragically Homosexual.”

Watney blinked. For a moment- a blessed, cherished moment- he said nothing.

Johannsen rolled her eyes. “Oh, grow up, Watney.”

“Why did you sleep with him?” Watney asked, frowning.

Johannsen shrugged. “We were hoping to be Comedically Straight.”

“I- what?”

 “You know. Comedy, opposite of Tragedy.”

“No, I mean- you’re just figuring this out _now?”_

“Why is that a problem?” Johannsen huffed.

“You are an _astronaut,”_ Watney said. “You- you hacked past _NASA’S computers. How_ did you not know this by now?”

Johannsen folded her arms. “Well, excuse me if I spent my time in college actually studying.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Watney demanded. Johannsen fixed him with a look. Watney opened his arms in a vague gesture. “Hey, I’m up here, same as you, aren’t I? And at least _I_ have enough common sense to have figured out by now that I’m neither Tragically Homosexual nor Comedically Straight. I am Musically Bisexual.”

“Musically?”

“Comedy. Tragedy. Musical.”

“Musical isn’t a _genre,_ oh my god, Watney.”

“Come on,” Watney said, prodding her side. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”

Johannsen shook her head, weakly. “Sorry, remind me what the point of this conversation was, again?”

“Huh?”

Johannsen narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t just some weird elaborate way of asking me if he’s taken, is it?” she asked shrewdly.

Watney smirked, leaning over so half his weight rested on her shoulder. “Why? You want details?”

Johannsen shoved him away, snorting. “Gross, no,” she said, laughing. “Please keep me as far away from your butt-touching as possible.”

“I’ll have you know,” Watney said, “we’re _just_ sleeping together.” He frowned. “Don’t quote me on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((aaand not quite 1k  
> ugh  
> johanssen needed more screen time and lines  
> though when i saw the movie again i actually thought she and beck were kind of cute))
> 
> ((EDIT: tumblr won't let me make this into a post on the blog, so it won't be up there for a bit. I'll try again later))  
> ((EDIT: hooray it worked!! that was really weird idk what happened))


	25. Chapter 25

Chris Beck awoke sluggishly to the sound of his own breath.

Taking a moment to reassert himself, he tried to identify as many details about the room as he could. The sheets were hot and slightly damp beneath his arms. There wasn’t a pillow under his head, because both of the ones that had been dedicated to this bunk had also been claimed by Mark by some point during the night. Mark, who was sleeping soundly beside him.

Chris tried to focus on Mark’s breath. After a few moments, when he’d matched his own breath to Mark’s, he sighed and ran a hand over his face. It came back burning with sweat.

He was no stranger to nightmares- especially now- but these were getting more and more frequent. Though he considered himself lucky- Mark might thrash and whine whenever his mind saw fit to torture him, but the only sign that would suggest Chris’s sleep was anything but peaceful was the tightening of his shoulders and the barely-there hitch of his breath.

Mark snuffled, head lolling over to the side. Chris let out a soft laugh at the sight- Mark usually kept his face so damn tense, even before he’d done his time on Mars. It wasn’t really stress, it was just the way he was. His eyes were always crinkled up, or his mouth was tight in a smile. But right now, he was perfectly still.

And goddamn if he wasn’t the most beautiful thing in the world right now.

Okay, Chris reminded himself, so they weren’t actually on Earth. In the universe, then.

His hair had fallen into his eyes, Chris noticed. If Mark were awake to see it, he’d have swept it back up above his forehead again by now.

But he wasn’t. So it stayed over his eyes, just above his nose. As he breathed, it ruffled gently.

Chris reached over and tucked a finger behind Mark’s bangs, brushing them back fondly. Mark let out a small hum, hands searching blindly on the sheets.

Chris was long past guilt by now, so he didn’t hesitate for a moment before taking Mark’s hand in his own, thumbing over his palm. Now that Mark was back on the ship- and back to stealing extra rations when he thought no one was looking- his hands had returned back from cracked and dry to soft and smooth.

Mark hummed again, hand closing around Chris’s like a newborn’s.

“Looking for something?” Chris murmured, squeezing back.

And Mark just looked so goddamn adorable that Chris really, truly didn’t have a choice- he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Mark’s forehead. Mark’s lips turned up in a smile, the hand around Chris’s retracting back towards his body. Not wanting to wait to see if his confidence was going to stick around for long, Chris gave another gentle kiss to his forehead, and then another to his nose.

Even unconsciously, Mark seemed to understand. Their faces were close enough that it only took the barest tilt of his head, until-

“All right, you lazy fucks, get your asses down to the kitchen- Vogel made w _oah my god.”_

Beck recoiled from where he’d been poised over Watney, one hand still tangled in his hair. He stared, eyes wide, at Johanssen. As he met her eyes, he tried desperately to communicate something- _anything-_ to her. She seemed to get the gist, because she didn’t say anything else.

At the noise, Watney snuffled and rolled over onto his side, curling up and facing Beck. Hands pawing blindly at Beck’s shirt, he mumbled something sleepily.

“Didn’t quite catch that,” Beck said, as Johanssen snorted from the doorway.

“Five more minutes- no, no, _weeks,”_ Watney groaned.

Beck frowned suddenly and pried his left arm from the bed, checking his watch. He held the clock face to his ear and raised his eyebrows as he discovered it was neither ticking nor telling the time.

“What _time_ is it?” he said, looking from his watch to Johanssen.

Amused, she folded her arms and leaned on the doorway. “Half an hour past breakfast,” she said. “Lewis gave you some extra beauty sleep, because god knows you need it.”

“So go away and give us our beauty sleep,” Watney grumbled.

“Vogel made waffles,” Johanssen said.

Watney made a strangled sort of noise, twisting so he was half sitting up again. Arms and legs tangled in the blankets, he wriggled furiously to get free and succeeded in punching Beck in the chest, winding him. Beck grunted, shoving a hand down on the bunk to stabilize himself.

 _“Waffles?”_ Watney demanded, about a half second before falling out of the bed entirely.

“Waffles,” Johanssen confirmed, watching him throw the blanket off and get to his feet.

“Wait a minute, we’re in space,” Watney said, pointing a finger accusingly at Johanssen. “You can’t make waffles in space.”

Johanssen shrugged. “Vogel found a way.” She smirked. “But hey, if you don’t want any, I’ll pass the message along.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Watney swore, before throwing the blanket back onto the bunk. It hit Beck square in the face. Beck pried it off and threw it down, giving Johanssen a glare. She threw her arms up in a _‘what can you do’_ gesture.

Watney looked around the room for his work clothes, apparently decided they weren’t as important as the prospect of space waffles, and tore past Johanssen. Beck watched him as he scrambled out the door, a faint smile lingering on his face- at least, until he noticed Johanssen giving him a knowing look.

“I heard you were sleeping together,” she said.

“Old news,” Beck countered. “I let the commander know weeks ago.” Beck tugged off his sleep shirt, yawning. He reached for the work shirt that was folded (i.e. neatly crumpled) by the side of the bunk.

“Does he know you’ve got terrible morning breath?”

“If you’re trying to be funny, Beth, it’s not working.” Swinging his legs over the side of the bunk, he got to his feet.

“Johanssen,” said Johanssen. “Call him ‘Mark’ all you like, but I’d like to keep at least a minimal level of professionalism, here.”

Beck shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“So,” Johanssen said, looking pointedly at the bed. “You want to explain to me exactly what that was all about?”

“No, not really.”

“Beck,” Johanssen said.

“You asked me if I wanted to.”

“Oh, god, Watney’s rubbing off on you,” Johanssen mumbled, unfolding her arms to run a hand down her face in exasperation. Beck was silent. She narrowed her eyes. _“No,”_ she said.

“No,” Beck agreed, hands sliding out the sleeves of his shirt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, walking past her through the doorway, “I believe there are some waffles down in the kitchen with my name on them.”

“Make sure you use lots of butter!” she called after him.

She couldn’t quite make out what it was that he shouted back to her, but it sounded suspiciously like _fuck you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((i wrote this today at work at like 8:30 am and i had to wait all day to type it up and post it  
> ill explain space waffles in the next entry- but i want you all to know that was one of the first ideas i ever had for this goddamn fandom  
> this might be crossing the line from "acceptable extrapolation from the book and movie, given relevant and trusted sources and information" to "literally shit out of my asshole"  
> also guys your comments give me life like seriously i am so grateful ty ty ty))


	26. Chapter 26

**Log Entry: Mission Day 745**

Oh my god.

Oh. My god.

Something happened this morning. I don't know how long it's been going on, or if anyone was ever going to tell me, but...

Fuck.

We have _space waffles._

A brief explanation: So, back when NASA was biting its own ass trying to make that probe that was going to save me, they tried to think of as many things as they could that would save space. And somewhere along the line, someone had the bright idea that storing things in a powdered form (i.e. literally in the most dehydrated form possible), they would save weight and space. The idea was scrapped because they realized that even if they sent powdered mixes, a) I didn't have a lot of water to spare, and b) I didn't have any way of cooking it. Other than, you know, microwaving the shit out of it.

But when the _Hermes_ decided to turn around and come back, NASA had a little more leeway. See, the resupply probe wasn't just for food and rations, it was for, you know. Supplies. Food, too, but other stuff like clothes and paper and a few personal letters written from families, whatever.

But guess what's one of the a) easiest, b) cleanest, and c) quickest ways of cooking things in the world? And now the universe?

A waffle iron.

No one had thought about it before, because in 0-g it's really dangerous to have small shit floating around at random. Back during the Apollo mission era, astronauts used to cut their hair with these vacuum razors (not as scary as they sound, I promise) so that hairs wouldn't get into places and make the whole ship blow up. But when the _Hermes_ was built, bam! We had artificial gravity. So now we just have to make sure all the floors are clean at the end of every day so we don't track anything out and into the 0-g space.

But back to the point: Artificial gravity + waffle iron + waffle mix + water= fucking space waffles. And hey, waffles don't make crumbs like cookies or bread, so there's approximately 0 cleanup. So it's a win-win-win-win all around.

To the best of my ability (and my memory), I'll try to recreate the conversation I had with our dear commander over my (very, very late) breakfast this morning.

Me: We have waffles!

Her: Yes.

Me: Why the hell didn't you tell me we had waffles?

Her: There were a few more important things we had to worry about. (i.e. bullshit.)

Me: Bullshit.

Also, I just came up with a great pun. I don't know when I'll be able to use it, but it's going to happen. One morning I'm going to wake up and demand that my breakfast will be brought to me, and Beck's going to say "what, you want breakfast in bed?" and I'll say "no, I want _Beck_ fast in bed" and it's going to be amazing.

They're letting me have coffee again today. Not sure if it's obvious enough or not. Martinez must still think I'm mad at him over mandrake Beck, because he did the honor of making me my first cup in about two years.

I'm not used to writing this early in the day. It was so late to breakfast this morning that I cut forty five minutes into my morning science schedule. So Lewis decided to turn the rest of this science block into my personal time, and then spend what would have been my _actual_ personal time doing science shit.

Which makes sense, I guess. Only it wasn't my fault I was late, Beck didn't get us up in time. He says his watch stopped working, but I think he just wanted to get me in trouble.

That, or he just wanted more sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((mark  
> mark pls  
> hey mark  
> mark he wants to bone you  
> marK))


	27. Chapter 27

"Watney, buddy, come on. Just talk to me- you can't still be mad."

"Commander, could you tell Martinez to go fuck himself?"

"Martinez, our esteemed botanist would like to tell you to go fuck yourself,” Lewis said, without missing a beat.

Beside Watney, Beck tried to mask his snort of laughter as a cough.

* * *

 

_[accessing account: mark_watney]_

_[please enter password:____]_

_[forgot password?]_

_[please enter administrator password: ____]_

_[accessing account: beth_johanssen]_

_[access granted]_

_[manual override: account: mark_watney: please enter new password:____]_

_[new password: suckmydickmars]_

_[error: password must contain at least two numbers]_

_[new password: suckmydickmars69]_

_[password accepted]_

_[accessing account: mark_watney]_

_[please enter password: ___]_

_[access granted]_

_[open: program: aresIM]_

_[new message: account: chris_beck: time: 11:25 PM]_

_[chris_beck]_

_You’re not actually still mad at Martinez, are you?_

_[mark_watney]_

_nah_

_[chris_beck]_

_I didn’t think so._

_[mark_watney]_

_wasnt his fault anyway. like u said_

_[chris_beck]_

_Right. Is there any particular reason you’re acting like a teenager who’s still bitter about his parents missing his seventh birthday?_

_[mark_watney]_

_do u always sound like a kid using a thesaurus for the first time when u type? or are u just trying to impress me?_

_[chris_beck]_

_That wouldn’t be difficult._

_[mark_watney]_

_rude. and martinez killed my other mandrakes in the first place. im letting him suffer_

_also he makes my coffee now_

_[chris_beck]_

_He does seem actually upset about it._

_[mark_watney]_

_good, thats the point_

_[chris_beck]_

_Let me clarify. “Actually upset” = “complaining to me about it.”_

_[mark_watney]_

_u? why u?_

_[chris_beck]_

_Because everyone else told him to shut up._

_[mark_watney]_

_so tell him to shut up_

_[chris_beck]_

_I can’t._

_[mark_watney]_

_wtf why not?? i tell him to shut up every day its not that difficult_

_[chris_beck]_

_Because it’s my JOB._

_[mark_watney]_

_ohhhhhhh right._

_sucks to be you_

_save some of martinez’s tears for me i want to use them to water my ferns_

_[chris_beck]_

_I’ll keep that in mind._

_In the meantime, aren’t you supposed to be finishing the rest of those interview questions?_

_[mark_watney]_

_fuck that_

_the last one i looked at asked me if i regretted signing up for ares 3_

_assholes_

_[chris_beck]_

_They’re just looking for a good story. Just keep your answers honest and PC, and your PR team will be happy._

_That wasn’t an invitation to tell them to go fuck themselves. I know you’re tempted._

_[mark_watney]_

_i have a pr team?_

_[chris_beck]_

_You’re Mark Watney. Get used to it._

_Just answer a few of them. Say you dream about disco, or something._

_[mark_watney]_

_fuck u_

_u answer 50 questions about how you thought u were going to die_

_see how u like it_

_[chris_beck]_

_Very funny._

_[mark_watney]_

_hey beck whats your worst nightmare_

_is it walking to the launch and realizing you forgot your underwear_

_[chris_beck is typing…]_

_[mark_watney]_

_well guess what on mars you dont forget your underwear you forget your helmet and you die and it sucks_

_or the hab explodes while youre in it and you die and it sucks_

_or the rovers windows fall out and you die_

_or the plants all disappear and you die_

_or the airlock fucking explodes and you die_

_no wait that one happened_

_its not a fucking story they get to print ok its what happened to me and whats still fucking happening to me and im not typing it all out just so they can make the world feel sorry for me and paint some kind of bullshit picture about how im damaged or useless or whatever other bullshit they can think of because im not and i dont see how thats so fucking hard to understand_

_[seen by chris_beck]_

_[chris_beck is typing…]_

_[chris_beck]_

_My worst nightmare is going home and realizing you’re dead. And that you’ve been dead for three years._

_That somehow, we forgot to go back for you._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_Though there’s another one where you slip out of my fingers right as the tether pulls me back._

_It’s a close second._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_Actually, no. You know what the worst one is?_

_The worst one is when we find you in the storm and bring you up with us on the MAV._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_Back on sol 6, when everything fucked itself over, Lewis looked for you._

_For a long time._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_The MAV was going to tip, but she didn’t care. She ordered us to leave without her if she didn’t find you._

_I don’t know why she didn’t tell you.  Maybe because she thought you’d call her an idiot for threatening to get herself killed and leave us without a commander. You probably still will._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_But anyway._

_Martinez used the OMS to keep us steady, but we didn’t have time._

_So I told Lewis you were dead._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_Your biosensers didn’t show any activity._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_There wasn’t a chance of catching you on the radar._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_She would have kept looking._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_But I told her you were dead. So she came back._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_Maybe if I hadn’t, things would be different._

_[seen by mark_watney]_

_[chris_beck]_

_I’m sorry._

_[mark_watney is typing…]_

_[chris_beck]_

_But you’re right._

_PR teams are stupid._

_Give ‘em hell._

_[mark_watney]_

_I’m sorry._

_[chris_beck]_

_Don’t be._

_We’re still almost a year away from home, we shouldn’t even have to be dealing with PR shit this early. NASA should have_

_Lewis should have_

_I’ll tell Lewis to get off your back about it. I’m your doctor, right? So whatever I say goes._

_[mark_watney]_

_Chris. I’m sorry._

_[seen by chris_beck]_

_[mark_watney]_

_I don’t blame any of you for what happened._

_I know I probably can’t change your mind if you blame yourself, but that’s the truth._

_I don’t know if that means anything to you, but it means a lot to me. I don’t care what you said- hell, I’m glad you did. If you hadn’t, Lewis would have been stuck down here with me. And then we’d both have starved to death, even if NASA had done their best. And you’d be left without a commander._

_I don’t really want to think about it._

_I’ve been trying not to think about it._

_You know, just focus on the good stuff. Keep the bad stuff to the nightmares._

_Blah, blah, blah, be a doctor and say something about how that’s not healthy, I don’t care. I spent two years having to think about it, I’m trying to take a break._

_Whatever. What was my point?_

_Oh, yeah. I’m sorry, it’s not your fault, what else- stop being sad? It’s weird when you’re sad._

_Shit, I’m bad at this. You’re supposed to be good at this, right? Counseling? I’m not counseling you, I mean._

_Fuck._

_[seen by chris_beck]_

_[chris_beck is typing…]_

_[chris_beck]_

_God. You’re terrible at this._

_[pending message: “It’s adorable.” marked for deletion. delete?]_

_[y]_

_It’s late. How about we just forget about this and go to bed early?_

_[pending message: “I’ll give you an extra shoulder rub and everything.” marked for deletion. delete?]_

_[n]_

_I’ll give you an extra shoulder rub and everything._

_[mark_watney]_

_seriously_

_i capitalized and everything for u and that’s what i get_

_a shoulder rub_

_[chris_beck]_

_The hell do you want from me?_

_[mark_watney]_

_a blowjob?_

_[chris_beck]_

_You are impossible._

_I did like the capitalization. Nice effort._

_And the punctuation. You must have combed through everything._

_[mark_watney]_

_nah_

_i just turned on spell check_

_[chris_beck]_

_Wow._

_You just shot the sincerity of the moment to hell._

_[mark_watney]_

_we’re having a moment?_

_[chris_beck]_

_Not anymore._

_[mark_watney]_

_asshole_

_[chris_beck]_

_You ruined it, not me._

_[mark_watney]_

_oh yeah i forgot to tell you something_

_[chris_beck]_

_What?_

_[mark_watney]_

_fuck you_

_[chris_beck]_

_Wow._

_Back to the point, though._

_Tell Martinez you’re not mad at him before I throw him out of the airlock and get myself court-martialed._

_[mark_watney]_

_youre not even part of the military u ass_

_[chris_beck]_

_It sounds cooler than “get my ass handed to me by Lewis.”_

_[mark_watney]_

_true_

_fine_

_but u owe me_

_hes gonna cry all over my shirt_

_tears of gratefulness_

_because im so nice and forgiving_

_im such a benevolent god_

_[chris_beck]_

_You’re something, that’s for sure._

_[mark_watney]_

_shut up u love me_

_[chris_beck]_

_You have ten minutes._

_Or no backrub._

_[mark_watney]_

_u said shoulder rub_

_[chris_beck]_

_I changed my mind._

_[mark_watney]_

_this doesn’t get u out of owing me_

_[chris_beck]_

_Maybe I’m just being nice._

_[mark_watney]_

_youre never nice_

_[chris_beck]_

_I’m always nice_

_[mark_watney]_

_liar liar EVA on fire_

_[chris_beck]_

_Don’t even joke about that._

_[mark_watney]_

_if youre ever actually nice_

_like genuinely nice_

_with no ulterior motive whatsoever_

_i will literally eat my EVA suit_

_[chris_beck]_

_Just because I’m the EVA specialist doesn’t give you free reign to use the word “EVA” in every other sentence to try to scare me._

_My offer still stands._

_(Also: do you remember the time when I caught you IN SPACE?)_

_[mark_watney]_

_all right all right keep your space pants on_

_be there in 7_

_(also: yes i do_

_[pending message: “you looked beautiful)” marked for deletion. delete?]_

_[y]_

_you looked terrible)_

_[chris_beck]_

_(So did you.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((trying a new style))  
> ((fun fact- every single message "marked for deletion" was something i added in and thought about taking out))  
> ((ps the ending line didnt change))  
> ((i wanted to do this chapter in a different font than the rest of the story (like courier new or something) bc in the book its a different font for IM messages, but i couldnt figure out how to do it- if the italics bug you let me know and i can change them to just regular font or bold or something. i know sometimes italics are annoying but they seemed to work fine for here so for now they're italics))  
> [((blog?))](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com)


	28. Chapter 28

“So how’d it go?”

Beck handed over a mug of coffee as Watney joined him beside the Rec table. Watney took it gratefully, beaming as he saw Beck had added cream.

“About as well as I thought it would.” Watney shrugged. “I showed him my gracious mercy and he wept for forgiveness.”

Johanssen, down on the other end of the table, cracked a smile.

“And your shirt?” Beck asked.

Watney held up his left sleeve, displaying the small stain just above the elbow.

“It was getting old, anyway,” he said. “I’ll just put it in the next round of jettison.”

“I’m trying to find something witty to say about Martinez’s snot heading into empty space,” Beck said thoughtfully, “but all I’ve got is that it’ll be better off out there.”

“It might be powerful enough to rip a hole in the space time continuum?” Watney offered. “Eh. But hey, you tried for a joke- good job. I’m proud of you.”

Beck rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”

Watney hissed. “Doctor Beck, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” He raised his mug up and swirled the coffee around lazily.

“Haven’t in a while,” Beck retorted.

“Captain America would be ashamed of you,” Watney said, taking a sip. He hummed happily- it was just the right temperature, with just the right amount of cream and sugar. It was funny, he didn’t remember ever telling Beck how he liked his coffee.  

“The hell is it with you and Marvel?” Beck muttered.

“I grew up with the movies, okay,” Watney said. “Let me have this.”

“For the record,” Beck said, not looking at him. “Captain America swore like a sailor.”

“You’re thinking of the other one,” Watney said, shaking his head and raising the mug back up to his lips. “The other Captain America.”

“What?” Beck frowned. “Oh, yeah- what, wasn’t he the villain in the second movie, or something?”

Watney made a small strangled sort of noise into his mug, coffee splattering over the sides. Coughing, he set the mug down, wiping his mouth. “Okay, first of all,” he said, holding up a finger. “It’s the second _Captain America_ movie, not the ‘second movie.’ And second of all, he’s not a villain- and if I hear you say that one more time, I’m- I’ll-” He floundered for an appropriate threat for a moment before snapping his fingers. “I’ll throw all your med supplies out with the next jettison, I swear to god.”

“All right, all right, geez.” Beck threw up his hands. “Then… well, hang on, if he’s not the villain, what is he? He’s not the main character, obviously.”

“The love interest,” Watney said, raising an eyebrow. “Duh.”

“No way.” Beck shook his head. “Those were made back in, what, the 2000’s?

“The one you’re thinking about is 2014,” Watney said.

“Exactly,” Beck said, gesturing with a hand. “They wouldn’t have made a gay couple back in 2014, are you kidding me? For such a high budget film?”

_“He’s the love interest.”_

“He was _not.”_

“You didn’t even _see_ the movies, how the hell would you know-”

“Oh my god,” Johanssen said, cutting through their conversation. “Shut up, _please_ shut up.” Her hands, frozen over her laptop keyboard, were splayed open wide in frustration.

“Hey, _he_ started it,” Watney said, pointing accusingly at Beck.

“You are so stupid,” she muttered, hanging her head and trying to type again.

“Come on, you heard what he was saying,” Watney spluttered. “He said he was the villain when it was _obviously_ supposed to be a love story-”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t a love story,” Beck said, defensively. “I’m saying it wasn’t the right time-”

“Could you two _possibly_ be any more gay,” Johanssen groaned, scowling at the both of them.

Watney blinked.

“Sure,” he said, and yanked Beck by the collar. He took a split second to send a victorious grin over to Johanssen before planting a wet kiss over Beck’s lips.

Beck’s startled yelp was muffled by Watney’s mouth over his own. The fingers closed over his ballpoint splayed open wide, and the pen clattered to the Rec floor.

It was stilted, awkward- but then, it was supposed to be. Watney didn’t back down, apparently committed in full to the joke; he didn’t loosen his grip on Beck’s shirt collar, didn’t flinch as their noses smashed together uncomfortably, didn’t care that their bodies were twisted against the hard plastic chairs, edge digging into his side.

And then Beck’s mouth softened over his, and their heads tilted just _right,_ and one of them sucked in a breath through his nose, and Beck’s hand finally started to reach out towards Watney’s sleeve, fingers brushing the fabric just so, just barely-

And then Watney laughed against his mouth and the hand clasped around his shirt collar flattened against his chest-

And he had a moment to realize what, precisely, was about to happen-

And Watney shoved him away, still laughing. Beck threw out a hand to the table to stabilize himself, but it was too late. He fell to the Rec floor with an undignified _flump,_ wincing as his shoulder hit the ground. Even if it didn’t have as much gravity as earth did, the Rec still had enough to make sure his shoulder was going to smart for the rest of the day.

“How’s that?” Watney called to Johanssen, as he reached down to help Beck up.

She snorted. “Can you just take your nerd conversation somewhere else so I can work?” she said, looking at her laptop.

Watney’s hand went slack. Beck tumbled back to the floor, cursing.

“Excuse me?” Watney said, abandoning Beck entirely and staring wide eyed at Johanssen. “Did you just call _me_ a nerd?” She gave him a level look. “Leather Goddesses of Phobos, Johanssen, Leather Goddesses-” He frowned. “Seriously, _how_ did you not know- you had _Leather Goddesses of Phobos,_ that didn’t clue you in?”

Johanssen scowled. “Bite me,” she said unflinchingly. And then, after a moment, “don’t actually bite me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((this chapter fought me tooth and nail to come out, uGH- i tried to write a bit with mark talking to martinez but it just WOULDNT  
> also mark references iron man at one point- this is sufficient evidence to say hes a giant marvel nerd  
> he was born in 1994 hes like the perfect age for the marvel movies hES A NERD  
> [also leather goddesses of phobos is actually a game](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leather_Goddesses_of_Phobos) i thought it was a joke but its NOT  
> johanssen how did you have that game and not realize you were thirsty for the C i dont understand ok the endgame is the world turning into the evil vixens' PLEASURE DOME JOHANSSEN HOW))
> 
> ((i have some plans for a future chapter so it shouldnt take too long to get up  
> its uh  
> interesting))


	29. Chapter 29

Again, five crewmembers slept soundly aboard the _Hermes_ as it careened through space, journeying towards Earth.

Again, one remained awake.

Again, Chris Beck watched Mark Watney’s sleeping form carefully, noting everything from the crease between his eyebrows to the twitch in his foot.

Again, he waited until Mark’s face relaxed entirely, REM Atonia kicking in.

Again, he carefully brushed his fingers over Mark’s hair, looking for a response. When he found none, he tried again, this time letting his fingertips dip lower, over Mark’s temples.

It worked- the sleep paralysis broke, and Mark’s head leaned into his hand.

_Wrong,_ something in the back of Chris’s mind said, _Wrong._

Chris ignored it.

The blankets shuffled under his body as he got to his knees, leaning over Mark. Carefully, he placed his hands on Mark’s shoulders, which were level and facing the ceiling. He always fell asleep on his back, Chris had noticed. Usually after a good twenty minutes of REM, he’d roll onto his side, and spend the rest of his sleep swapping between facing left or right.

It wasn’t like Chris was intentionally cataloguing Mark’s sleeping patterns, or anything. But there had been the first few nights, after the first time. When he’d waited for Mark to fall asleep, but found that the line of guilt in his stomach was simply too thick to push past. There had been the first few nights, when all he’d done was watch Mark’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, watch his mouth part slightly when he rolled over to face Chris, until his lips became too dry and he’d lick them unconsciously.

He hadn’t bothered telling himself he was watching out for nightmares. No, he was watching Mark sleep because one night Mark had kissed him- and he didn’t know why, or if it would ever happen again, but he did know that if it ever _could_ happen again, he wasn’t going to miss it for the world.

Well. For the universe, technically.

But he was long past that, now.

He tugged gently on Mark’s left arm until Mark rolled over to face him, giving a low snuffle.

Chris had seen a lot in his lifetime. He’d seen Earth from space, seen a new night sky full of stars every day. He’d seen Mars from space, seen its craters and its valleys and its spots, seen its deserts and its dust and its clouds. He’d seen Earth from Mars, the tiny blue dot just over the horizon, watched it rise and fall and set. He’d seen the Sun rise and fall and set, red light almost burning the land it touched.

But nothing, he thought- watching as Mark’s bottom lip caught on the pillowcase and left his mouth hanging open, as a damp spot on the fabric began to form below it, as his hair fell again over his eyes, uncontrollably messy-

_Nothing_ could compare to this.

The lines around his eyes were relaxed- as they should be, Chris thought. Mark hadn’t been tense- the kind of tense he’d been back when Chris had first brought him into his bed- in weeks. His nightmares only surfaced once every several days, instead of nightly, and he was waking up in better and better spirits. It was progress, Chris thought. It was good progress. It was going to take time- a lot of time- for him to recover entirely. And hell, he might not _ever_ recover entirely. But Chris would take this for what it was.

Mark gave a particularly big exhale through his nose, face sliding down the pillow. His right arm hung at an uncomfortable angle over his body, shoulder drooping forward. On another night, perhaps Chris might have pulled the pillow from under his head and slipped it under Mark’s arm to stabilize him.

But it wasn’t another night, it was this night.

_Wrong,_ the something said again, a little louder. _Wrong._

Again, he ignored it.

Taking care not to jostle Mark too much, Chris slid across the bed until he was inches away from Mark’s face, close enough to taste his breath. He reached for Mark’s hand and led it to his hips, carefully. Mark latched on immediately, making a small contented noise. Chris retracted his own hand, but Mark didn’t follow, fingers digging ever so slightly into Chris’s hipbones, sliding up under his shirt.

So far, Chris thought, so good.

He let his own left hand wander up under Mark’s arm, sliding over his waist and resting on the small of Mark’s back. That had always been Chris’s favorite part of the body, the small of the back. It was funny, really- most people, when he asked them, would say they preferred the eyes or the mouth (or if they were someone like Mark, the ass.) But Chris had always loved the simplicity of the back- the way it dipped, the way it shifted with movement, the way it rose and fell with breath.

As he always did, Mark sidled up to the contact. He pressed his face towards the pillow, sucking in a breath through his nose.

Chris watched him silently.

Fixed, now- thanks to Vogel’s handiwork- his watch counted the seconds. It tapped out a rhythm, sixty beats per minute, against his ear. He counted to thirty five before losing track.

The bed beneath them was soft, molded to their weight. The pillows were warm under their heads, flattened over a year’s worth of use. The room was lit only by the light that crept in under the door, but it was enough to see by. It was enough to see the way Mark’s eyes tightened shut every so often, the way his nose nudged the pillowcase, the way his mouth oscillated open and closed, the way he licked his lips whenever they became too dry.

It would be enough for Mark to see the way Chris licked his own in tandem, if he were awake.

It would be enough for Mark to see the tilt of Chris’s head the moment before making the decision.

It would be enough for Mark to see the hardened look in Chris’s eyes as he slid his right hand up under Mark’s head, cupped the side of his jaw, and kissed him.

The feeble cry of _Wrong_ was drowned out by the litany of sheer relief that seemed to spread down Chris’s spine as Mark began to kiss back, fingers digging into Chris’s hips. He wasn’t sure why it was relief, exactly, but it was.

Mark hummed against his mouth, the hand on Chris’s hips sliding back until it was spread flush against Chris’s body. Chris pulled back, sucked in a gasp of air, and surged forward again, just barely missing Mark’s nose with his own. He grabbed blindly at Mark’s back, feeling his shoulder blades, digging his fingers down against the soft skin.

_Wrong,_ the something said.

Somehow, under the mass of blankets over them, Mark’s foot found his thigh. Instantly, Mark’s leg hooked over his own. Not complaining, Chris scooted forward until their chests were near flush against one another. Mark’s foot ran down his leg, almost as if it were searching for something. His toes spread out, dragging across Chris’s skin, shuffling against the sheets.

Heart thudding, Chris broke the kiss and slipped his lips down to Mark’s jaw, running them across the light line of stubble, dropping soft kisses as he went. Mark whined softly, pushing his leg forward. His thigh knocked up against Chris’s, almost shoving him backwards.

Chris returned, bringing his left hand back from Mark’s waist and sliding it up against his chest instead as he dragged his lips down to Mark’s neck. Mark whimpered quietly, pedaling one foot against the bed.

He pulled off of Mark’s neck before lost his mind for long enough to leave a mark, watching the slick of spit against Mark’s skin as he swallowed down a breath. Not wanting to waste time, he slid his mouth back up against Mark’s lips. Mark didn’t seem to mind, because he kissed back with more fervor than ever.

Mark whined into his mouth, sound luckily muffled. The hand on Chris’s hips moved- but not up, not back. It slid down, down past the waistband of Chris’s pants.

It was Chris’s whimper of surprise that was muffled this time- even unconscious, Mark was taking control.

Chris wondered absently to himself if Mark was dreaming of this- if he was getting as much out of this as Chris was. Another part of him began to wonder who Mark was dreaming of, if he was dreaming at all, but he shoved it in the back corner alongside the whisper of _Wrong._

And then Mark’s leg shoved up between his legs, and his hips _snapped_ forward, and Chris’s thigh was lodged up against the full front of Mark’s hips, against what was unmistakably-

**_WRONG-_ **

Chris recoiled, wrenching his hands away and wriggling out from under Mark’s arms.

Chest heaving, he closed his eyes and took a moment to think.

Wrong, he thought, this was wrong. From the beginning, it had been wrong- and in the beginning, he’d known that. And then he hadn’t, and now he’d almost-

No, he thought. _No._

At the loss of contact, Mark was grasping at the sheets. His face was screwed up in frustration, lips still spit slicked and just-barely-open.

He couldn’t do this, Chris realized. He couldn’t do this, not to Mark.

Fuck, when had it gotten this bad?

He let out a shaky breath, flopping onto his back and drawing a hand down across his face.  

This couldn’t happen again, he knew. Never again, never. Never.

Beside him, Mark made a keening whine, hand clenching around the sheets.

Chris rubbed the hell of his palm against his eyes, pretending it wasn’t smearing tears over his cheeks. He sucked in another breath, dropping his hand back against the bed. At the sudden movement, Mark flinched. His face was tense, shoulders tight, entire body trembling.

“Fuck,” Chris breathed, unable to stop himself from running a hand through his hair. “I’m… I’m sorry. _Fuck.”_

Mark seemed to hear him, but didn’t understand. He leaned into Chris’s hand, eyes relaxing.

“I’m sorry,” Chris murmured, pressing his forehead up against Mark’s. “I’m _sorry_ , Mark.”

Mark hummed softly. Chris reached down, finding his hand and lacing their fingers together. Mark’s hand was warm and soft under his own, squeezed just tight enough, _God,_ was everything about him perfect? But maybe, he thought. Maybe, if he could never have this again, he could have this. Just this, he thought.

And so, pretending his heart wasn’t breaking into pieces, he leaned in to kiss Mark, one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((....  
> .........
> 
>  
> 
> ......................))


	30. Chapter 30

“Get up.”

Mark mumbled something indistinct, grabbing at the edge of the blankets to hold them back. But Beck didn’t pull them off as he usually did.

“I said get up, Watney,” Beck repeated, slipping his arm out of his shirt sleeve. “We’re late for breakfast.”

Mark tugged the blanket off his head, frowning. “We’re always late for breakfast.”

“Well then,” Beck said tersely. “Let’s try to break that habit.”

“Touchy,” Mark grumbled, rolling onto his back. He watched as Beck peeled his sleep shirt over his head- perhaps taking a moment or two to appreciate the outlines of his back muscles- and saw the glint of something in his eye. It wasn’t anger, not quite. Beck’s words might have been clipped and short, but it wasn’t anger.

“Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” Mark said.

Beck paused for a moment before answering. “Something like that.”

“You know what,” Mark said, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. “You go. I’ll catch up with you.”

“Lewis is going to blame me when you’re late.”

“Nah,” Mark said, rolling over onto his side again and reaching for a pillow to tuck under his arms. “Jus’ tell her I wouldn’t get out of bed, no matter how hard you tried.”

“Fine,” Beck said, shrugging. “On your head be it.”

Mark yawned and pulled the blankets back up over himself again, trying to lose himself in the comfort of the bunk. It still smelled like Beck- at least, on the left side. Though both of the pillows seemed to hold the scent, actually, now that Mark was thinking about it. He forced his eyes shut as Beck changed into his work clothes, folding the sleep shirt and pants and putting them away, and didn’t open them again until the door had opened and shut once more.

* * *

 

**Log Entry: Mission Day 752**

With the exception of Sol 6 (and probably a few other Sol days back there, but I'm too lazy to go through and find any in particular), I think today is probably going to be the worst day I've had in space so far.

Does being on Mars technically count as 'in space'? I mean, I know Mars itself is 'in space', but by that logic, Earth is 'in space', too. And we don't call just being on Earth being 'in space'.

Whatever. The point is today sucks.

I sent back my answers to about half of those stupid ass questions for NASA a couple days ago- and they replied with a message that basically boiled down to "more please, with less swearing." So naturally, I responded in the most professional manner I could: by ignoring them completely.

Which was a problem for them, because I happen to be kind of a big deal back on Earth.

So when NASA gave up on nagging me, they started to nag Lewis.

It's amazing. The smartest minds in the world, all collectively coming together, and they still haven't figured out that nagging Lewis about something is the equivalent of saying "hey, fuck you" to a hippogriff.

Read a book.

So Lewis went to me and said something that basically boiled down to "I'll throw you out of the airlock if you don't stop pissing off NASA", so guess what I've been doing all day!

That's right! Avoiding responsibilities like a motherfucker. I.E. writing this.

I'm not one to shirk chores, usually- how the hell do you think I survived Mars? But not answering fifty more shitty questions isn't going to get me killed in the same way that not lugging a football stadium's volume worth of dirt inside the Hab to grow my own food would have gotten me killed.

Whatever.

I don't even care about the damn questions.

I don't care about Lewis.

Are you allowed to say that when you're in space? I like to think that NASA tries to hire people they're pretty sure aren't going to say shit like "fuck it" or "I don't care" in the middle of a mission.

Fuck it. I don't care.

* * *

 

**Log Entry: Mission Day 753**

I think I just gave up my title as “best botanist on the planet.” Am I still allowed to say I’m the best botanist on Mars? Or do I have to say I _was,_ because I’m not actually on Mars, now? Who gives a fuck, because I’m not on Mars and I’m not a botanist anymore, apparently.

The light experiment’s over, all of the plants are back in the botany lab, and I’ve just been cataloging their growth for the past few days. NASA usually sends me instructions for different things I can do with them, but right now Mark Watney: Man Stranded On Mars is much more popular than Mark Watney: Botanist. I think I preferred it when Johanssen’s merchandise was outselling the rest of ours.

But hey, who needs Mark Watney: Actual Botanist when you can have Chris Beck: Not Really A Botanist But I Guess He’s Supposed To Be One Now?

Yeah, thanks, NASA. Send the weird, introspective questions to the Botanist, and make the Doctor take care of the plants. What could go wrong?

I went back to the Botany lab this morning after breakfast to try to clear my head. But what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a cranky Chris Beck and his beautiful rear.

“What the fuck?” I emitted, my eyes full of shock.

“Calm down, Watney,” he said, “I think we need to talk. The Commander instructed me here to attend- to your plants,” he said simply. “I’ve more time to spend.”

“Why, that’s bullshit,” I said, my mouth hanging agape. “I’m the botanist here on this ship, not you, ape!”

“Lewis asked me to do it,” Beck said with a sigh. “She talked to me yesterday, I don’t know why.”

“No, I get it,” I said. “She just wants me to spend- some more time on those questions. The ones NASA send.”

“If that’s true, then I think you should go and get started,” Beck said, and I knew that his words were wholehearted. “I know they’re insensitive, rude at their best- but you have to start somewhere. Just one, then the rest.”

“I’m the botanist, damnit!” I said with chagrin, “and I don’t have the slightest clue where to begin!”

“You can start with the first one,” Beck said with a smile. “And for god’s sake, you don’t have to act so senile.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I can’t help it, it’s true. I hate all these questions, they make me feel blue. They ask me about things I’d rather forget, about things that make me wake up in cold sweat.”

“That’s horrible,” Beck said, and folded his arms. (Luckily, I was immune to his charms.) “I’ll help you get through them,” he said, suddenly. “I’ll help you stay tethered to reality.”

“But what do you mean?” I asked, frowning a little. “This is a spaceship, you know, no hospital.”

“Well, I’m still a doctor,” Beck said with a sway. “And so it’s my duty to know you’re okay.”

Okay. Okay, I’m done. There’s only so far you can get without a rhyming dictionary on hand, and I think I reached the point of no return. See, what actually happened went more like this:

Me: What the hell are you doing in my lab?

Beck: I’m the new botanist.

Me: Bullshit.

The whole heart to heart bit wasn’t quite there. I think he might have actually narrowed it down to less than four words, if that’s even possible. The whole thing’s a bit of a blur for me, to be honest.

I wouldn’t be surprised. He hardly even talks to me anymore, which pisses me off. Not to sound like a middle schooler, or anything, but I thought he liked me. I mean, it’s like he just decides out of the blue sometimes whether to like me or not, and I’m sick of it. If he really hates me- I mean, if we just don’t mesh together as people, or if he just can’t stand me, then fine. I’d be okay with that. If that’s true, then there’s nothing I can do to change that. But then sometimes he does, and I just

I can’t, okay?

I guess I just care too much.

And maybe I wouldn’t, if it was someone else, but it’s not. It’s him. So I care.

When he gets like this, it’s like he’s not even there. And I feel like I felt back when I was stranded on Mars with no one to talk to. I miss him. He’ll be three feet away from me and I’ll still miss him.

I should probably be telling him this instead of writing in a goddamn diary about it.

But hey, when shit hits the fan, I can always turn to the Fuck It Adjustment©.

* * *

 

“Beck. Watney.” Lewis looked between the both of them sternly. “What the hell is wrong with you two?” 

Watney choked on his yawn, trying to hide it behind his fist and failing rather spectacularly.

"Watney," Lewis said, raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry, sorry," Watney muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Just not quite awake yet."

Lewis frowned. "It's one thirty in the afternoon."

"Yeah." Watney shrugged. "Weird. My coffee doesn't usually wear off this quickly."

It was funny, he thought, because Beck made his coffee with twice the grounds- and made up for it with massive amounts of sugar and milk, which made it taste like just about the worst cup of coffee Watney had ever had- so it usually kept him running until pretty late in the afternoon. Maybe he'd just made it differently this morning-

"Oh," Watney said.

"Something wrong?" Lewis said.

"No, no." Watney shook his head. "I just... forgot to get coffee this morning, that's all." Beside him, Beck shifted imperceptibly.

"Hm." Lewis shrugged. "Well, I suggest you wake up.” She frowned. “Beck,” she said. “I don’t have any of your botany journals for this week. Care to explain?”

Beck blinked. “Right, that’s. That’s right.” He cleared his throat.

“You _have_ been attending to your new botany duties, yes?”

“Yes,” Beck said, nodding. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, then.” Lewis eyed him shrewdly. “I suggest you get to work documenting your findings, as soon as possible. You’ve only been taking care of those plants for a week; I hope for both of your sakes that they’re still alive.”

Beck nodded again. “Yes, Commander.”

“Watney,” Lewis barked, turning to Watney. “I don't have any of your answers from NASA’s last question dump."

"Right." Watney cleared his throat. "Well, that would be because they don't, actually, uh. Exist."

Lewis let out a low breath. "Explain," she said coldly.

"I've been," Watney said, folding his hands. "Distracted," he finished sheepishly.

Lewis pinched the bridge of her nose. Neither Beck nor Watney said anything further. Watney stole a quick glance at Beck, and their eyes met for a split second before Beck looked back down at his shoes.

“Beck,” Lewis said calmly. “A moment of privacy, please.”

“Yes, Commander,” Beck said, not even trying to mask the relief in his tone. He gave a short nod before turning around and heading for the ladder leading out of the Rec. Lewis and Watney listened to his footsteps for a few seconds before they stopped- and they both knew Beck had climbed out of the gravitational rotation of the ship.

Lewis turned back to Watney. Watney held his breath.

"I understand this is a difficult time for you, right now," Lewis began, "and I don't pretend to know what you're going through. Now, I don't know exactly what's going on, but this is a level of unprofessionalism I _cannot_ tolerate on my ship." She looked straight at Watney, eyes narrowed. "I don't _care_ what's going on between you and Beck, but I expect you to handle it like adults. You are _professional astronauts."_ Frowning, she crossed her arms. "NASA didn't hire me to babysit children. Is that clear?"

Watney nodded.

 _"Is that clear?"_ Lewis snapped.

"Yes," Watney said, eyes falling to her shoes.

"Yes...?" Lewis prompted.

"Yes, Commander," Watney said.

"Good." Lewis cleared her throat. "You can start catching up on your science schedule tomorrow.”

"Commander?"

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Fix this, Watney."

Watney sighed. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

 

**Log Entry: Mission Day 760**

This is my last will and testament.

I'm going to die. I already used the "sheer, dizzying height of my own sexual frustration" line a while back, but if I hadn't already, I'd be using it now. Because I'm stupid, and because Lewis isn’t, I have to go talk to Beck.

About something. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say. I think he’s upset at me- maybe not mad, I don’t know. But I don’t know why. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix it. Because a) if I actually did something wrong to piss him off, I don’t know if he’ll tell me what it is and I don’t know how in hell I’m supposed to fix it, and b) if I didn’t do something and he’s just being a grump because he’s upset about something else, there’s probably nothing I can do to fix that.

But anyway, I’m going to have to try. Remember, I still have to sleep next to him- which is going to be a hell of a lot more awkward if we’re still in this weird not talking phase.

This will probably be my last log entry.

I want to thank all the hands down at NASA, who kept me alive this long. I want to thank my Commander, for getting us this far. I want to thank Martinez for not crashing me into the dirt when he piloted the MAV. I want to thank Johanssen for being the only sane person on this ship. I want to thank Vogel for being the most insane person on this ship. I want to thank my parents, for meeting each other in college in the first place. I want to thank Mars, for being shitty and almost killing me a hundred thousand times.

And I think that’s it?

No, wait, I’m missing someone.

I want to thank Chris Beck for all of the space boners. Really, though. I don’t think anyone could have done a better job in that department.

Right, that’s probably good. If the world hasn’t already sold all of my stuff, it can all go to Beck. As a reminder of the fact that he killed me with his dashing good looks.

This is astronaut Mark Watney, signing off for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((credit to the Fuck It Adjustment: [this](https://youtu.be/GSZv1VliGs0?t=3m43s) game grumps episode  
> note: every change from mark/watney or chris/beck is intentional, im not quite that shitty at continuity))  
> ((oh yeah also the christmas poem wouldnt make sense bc they're somewhere around april by now (at least i think??? i think) but its almost christmas so fUCK IT))  
> [((blog))](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com)


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ((please note the change of rating))

There were only a few things in the world that truly scared Mark Watney. Then again, neither Mars nor the _Hermes_ technically counted as ‘the world.’ But if he were taking into account the entire universe, then there were quite a few things that scared him.

If he were going by the scale of the whole universe, then Commander Lewis’s disapproval fell second only to the entire prospect of black holes.

Which was why, against his better judgement- no, against _all_ of his judgement- he was forcing himself back up Semicone-A, towards Beck’s quarters.

The unexpected meeting in the Botany Lab had been uncomfortable, to say the least. He tried not to think about it as he pushed himself off the ladder towards the opposite side of the rotating room. He didn’t want to be angry at Beck, but it was hard not to be. Beck hadn’t shown a shred of apology when he’d explained that Lewis had swapped their duties.

No, swapping their duties would imply that Watney had inherited something in return. Which he hadn’t.

It wasn’t Beck’s fault, he told himself. Just because he no longer had the authority to feed and water his ferns or his tomatoes- or the pansies that NASA had sent with them on the resupply probe that had finally decided to sprout- didn’t mean he should be blaming Beck. Besides, he was supposed to be patching things up between them. The last thing he needed was another argument, and he hated arguing with Beck. Because he hated arguing with anyone at all, ever.

And because Beck somehow always ended up _winning._

No, Watney thought to himself. They were going to talk, damn it. Because if they didn’t, Lewis would throw them both out of the airlock to spare herself the annoyance of dealing with them.

Watney tightened his fingers around the rails of the ladder as the artificial gravity began to take effect and he began sliding down to the crew quarters. He landed on the floor and, rubbing his sweaty palms down the sides of his shirt, headed for Beck’s room.

He’d wait for Beck here, he’d decided. Beck liked to work late before coming to bed sometimes, and now that he had the added work from the Botany Lab, he’d probably be even later. Checking his watch as he shouldered the door open, Watney figured he’d probably have another hour or so before Beck made it down.

Or, he thought, looking up to see Beck on his knees beside the bed, staring up at him, he wouldn’t have to wait at all.

“Watney,” Beck said, frozen in place. “I didn’t think you’d be down here for…” He trailed off, glancing at his watch. “A while,” he finished, looking back up.

“Wanted to talk to-” Watney frowned, looking at exactly what Beck was hunched over. “Hang on,” he said. “Is that-” He blinked, taking in the plastic bin on the floor, full to the brim with clothes and supplies. The bed was made neatly, with a pile of folded clothes on one side and a pile of crumpled ones on the other. Beck was hunched over the plastic bin, lid upturned by his knees. He looked up at Watney, eyes wide.

“Is that my stuff?” Watney asked, brow furrowing. “Wait- wait, are you kicking me out?”

“No!” Beck abandoned the bin, getting clumsily to his feet. “No, it’s.” He cleared his throat. “It’s mine.”

Watney looked at the bin, and sure enough, there was Beck’s stupid turtleneck, Beck’s socks, Beck’s laptop.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re.” He looked at Beck. “Leaving?”

“Well.” Beck folded his arms. His fingers closed around his sides, though, rather than grabbing his arms. “You hardly need me to babysit you anymore, do you?”

If the words were intended to drive Watney away, Beck was on the track. Watney bristled at the word _babysit,_ frowning and standing a little taller.

“I- guess,” he said, looking at the floor. “But- this is _your_ room.”

“Out of the six of us, you’re by far the most entitled to a bed,” Beck said, smiling in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“So where are you supposed to go?” Watney raised an eyebrow.

Beck shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”

“Not my Botany lab, I hope.”

 _“Your_ Botany lab?” Beck countered.

Watney huffed. “Right. It’s yours now, isn’t it?”

“You’re still sore about that,” Beck mused.

“Sore about not being allowed to man the Botany lab. As the only _official Botanist_ on this ship.”

“And as the only one on this ship currently experiencing mental trauma at a magnitude no NASA astronaut could possibly relate to,” Beck said without malice, “yes. And anyway, I was going to say it was _our_ Botany lab. It’s our ship.”

“Beck,” Watney said.

“I should go.” Beck smiled tiredly, before bending down and reaching for the bin lid. Watney opened his mouth, but closed it before he could say anything. Beck snapped the lid onto the bin, looking over the four neat letters printed on with Sharpie. He paused, then, fingers curled around the bottom of the bin.

Mark looked at his back, swallowing down something that might have sounded something like _Stay._

He counted three breaths before Beck braced his legs and hefted the bin up. He turned, giving Mark a quick nod.

Mark watched him take four steps towards the cabin door before clearing his throat.

“Actually,” he said, “you know what, I… think I fucked up my back again.” He gave a sheepish shrug as Beck stared at him. “So, you know. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“I was going to…” Beck looked down at the bin in his hands. “Bed,” he finished.

“So you’re not busy,” Watney said, grinning. “You’ll help me out, then?”

Beck sighed. “How bad is it?”

Watney shrugged again. “Been kind of tense for the last couple of days, but I whacked it into a wall today.”

Beck pinched the bridge of his nose. “You were chosen out of a pool of hundreds of _thousands_ of candidates for the Ares 3 program- you know that, right?”

“Shut up,” Watney said. “You gonna help me or not?”

Beck eyed him coolly.

* * *

 

Neither of them spoke.

They both lay on their sides, facing the door.

Beck’s hands wandered down, rubbing down against his back, thumbs digging against his skin. There was just enough slick of sweat that they slid across his skin instead of snagging. Beck stroked up from his hipbones to his shoulders, fingers curling over Mark’s shoulders. His fingers trailed down Mark’s neck, thumbs pressing down beside his neck.

Neither of them spoke.

Mark hissed out a breath, unconsciously wrapping his arms tighter around the pillow (not around Beck’s waist), hands squeezing the pillow (not clenching at Beck’s arms), eyes sliding shut (not staring into Beck’s, not searching for what little light the room could provide.)

Beck curled his fingers around Mark’s neck, forefingers brushing his collarbone. Mark sucked in a breath, sharply. Beck’s hands stilled, and for a moment neither of them moved.

Mark opened his eyes to the crack of light from the door, exhaling.

Beck circled his fingertips around Mark’s neck, gentle at first before digging in. His thumbs slid up to the fuzz of hair on Mark’s neck, pressing down.

The pillow slid down from his arms, as his knees tucked up and pulled it down. He knew before he folded his legs that he was hard, and he thanked the grace of god- or the grace of whatever had gotten him off of that miserable planet in the first place- that there wasn’t enough light in the room to see his face- the sheets felt cool against his burning skin.

One of Beck’s hands stayed on his neck, rubbing against the base of his skull, and the other slid down, down, down- past his shoulder blade, down past his waist, down to-

One of Beck’s thumbs hooked over the waistband of his sweats. The hand on Mark’s neck stilled, fingers barely brushing against Mark’s hair even as he held his breath. Mark, too, couldn’t do more than stare at nothing, hands trembling against the sheets as he waited- waited for Beck to say something, do something, why wasn’t he _doing anything-_

Oh.

Beck was waiting for _him._

Right. This was happening. Something in him clicked, something in him understood, then, that this was happening. And once they crossed this line, there would be no going back. There would be consequences, of course there would be. But he didn’t care. Not now.

He hissed out a breath through his teeth, bucking back against Beck’s hand.

Something joined Beck’s hand on his neck- softer, warmer- and Mark realized that was Beck’s _mouth,_ Christ-

Cold and Sharp interrupted Soft and Warm as something snagged his skin- teeth, Beck was _necking him-_ before the smooth honeying Soft and Warm lips pressed back down, comforting, apologizing.

Of course, Mark realized. Chris couldn’t leave any marks, of course he couldn’t. The crew- Lewis-

With Beck’s mouth taking control, Beck’s hand was free to roam- and roam it did. Beck grabbed him by the waist on either side, one hand resting on the top of Mark’s hip, the other sliding between his other hip and the mattress. Mark gasped against the sheets, glad he was facing away from Beck- even with the dim light, there would still be enough to see the expression on his face, and he really didn’t want-

Beck’s hands pushed, forcefully, turning Mark onto his back. He could just make out the ceiling, make out the definition of tiles lining the walls. Beck was moving, then- crawling up on top of him, straddling him. Before Mark had more than a second to register what was happening, Beck’s hips were digging down against his, gyrating in time with their breath, and when had they started breathing together, what was _happening-_

Chris’s mouth dove down onto his jaw, brushing the line of barely-there stubble, tongue laving circles where it pleased. With his hands on Mark’s shoulders, there was nothing Mark could do but keen up against him.

And they were so close, they were so _close-_ Mark could taste Chris’s breath, all wintergreen and that something else that had haunted him for weeks when he’d stolen Chris’s extra clothes for the first time back on Mars (why was he thinking about mars). His hands, almost of their own volition, cupped Chris’s jaw, drew him back-

Beck tugged out of his grip, not meeting his eyes.

Before Mark could get anything out besides a small noise that could have been a question, Chris’s hands were back down at his waistband, tugging gently. Mark swallowed thickly, looking down and trying to make out the shapes of their bodies in the dark. He dug his heels in and forced his hips up, hoping the message was clear.

Beck evidently understood, pushing the sweats down past Mark’s hips. Mark shivered against the sudden chill of the room over his thighs, his stomach- but he didn’t have to worry for long. Beck tugged the sweats past his ankles, and Beck was back on him, bending down and kissing his stomach, hands sliding over his chest, up to his shoulders.

Mark, panting now, spared one look down at Beck, down at the tufts of hair spreading every which way and looking so goddamn _perfect_ before throwing his head back down against the sheets and closing his eyes. Beck’s hands slid down to his hips, grabbing tightly.

“Oh-” Mark panted, quivering against the sheets as Beck’s lips slid down, down- oh god-

Beck stilled, thumbs circling gently over Mark’s hips. Even with his eyes closed, Mark knew Beck was looking at him, looking for a sign. He couldn’t meet Beck’s eyes, he couldn’t, he _couldn’t-_

He let out a breath, hands somehow finding their way into Beck’s hair, fingertips circling over his scalp.

Beck made a soft sound- so soft that Mark almost wondered if he was imagining it- and pressed a kiss just below Mark’s navel, just so, just gently. Mark whimpered softly, fingers closing around Beck’s hair.

And those lips- so soft, so sweet, so warm- those _lips,_ god, how many times had Mark looked at them and unconsciously licked his own, wondering to himself what they would taste like, what they would _feel_ like? He didn’t need to wonder, now, as they dragged down against his skin, he didn’t need to stare at them as if he’d forget them otherwise, he had this memory now.

He had the memory of Beck’s breath hot and warm above him, lips a goddamn inch away- and Mark knew if he looked down, if he could see, they’d be spit slick and red and _gorgeous_ as they wrapped around him, as they sank down, as Beck hummed low in his throat, the vibration spreading through every fiber of Mark’s being, until his fingertips tingled and he clenched Beck’s hair, desperately.

He was lost, lost in the welcoming heat, in the feeling he’d only dreamed of for years, now. Eyes clenched shut as Beck sank down, down, down, he tried not to thrust back up against him. It was a losing battle; he couldn’t help it, really, he couldn’t-

Beck grunted as Mark’s hips rose to meet him, but he didn’t falter, and his hand came up to cover what his mouth couldn’t, as he swallowed clumsily. Mark moved in time with him, somehow finding a beat to breathe to in the discordant rhythm between them. And he knew, he _knew_ he’d been using the showers like any normal person with any normal impulses, but this was just _so much better_ and he couldn’t- he couldn’t-

He came with a keening whine, without warning and without control, chest heaving, digging his head back into the sheets, eyes squeezed shut, back arched off the mattress.

Beck grunted again, dutifully swallowing again and again around him, hardly moving an inch.

Mark came down slowly, letting his back lie down against the sheets, slowly untangling his fingers from Beck’s hair, lifting his head off the sheets and looking down. His eyelids were suddenly heavy over his eyes, and he had to fight to keep his focus on Beck’s face. 

Beck pulled off- gently, of course, there wasn’t even the barest scrape of teeth, everything about him was so soft, so sweet- and wiped his mouth with his wrist, wordlessly. Mark shivered at the cool cabin air, and as if he’d read his mind, Beck pulled the sweats up from his ankles, carefully covering him up again. He turned away, sliding back up to the head of the bed and pulling the covers up over them both.

After a moment of stillness, the covers shifted and Mark heard the muffled sound of skin on skin, felt the mattress quiver in rhythm.

Mark blinked. Was Beck just going to… Surely, he’d expect something in return, right?

He slid a hand across the sheets, slowly.

Beck stilled.

Mark set his hand on Beck’s shoulder. He didn’t dig his fingers in, didn’t grab, just let them rest.

Slowly, Beck turned onto his back. It was too dark to see his face- or perhaps Mark was just too exhausted to focus properly- but it was enough. Beck’s hand was still between his legs, frozen in place.

Mark swallowed thickly, reaching down so his hand covered Beck’s own. Beck inhaled, stilled, exhaled.

Together, they moved.

It was slow at first, stilted. Awkward. After three strokes, Beck pulled off with a small frustrated sound. He brought his hand to his mouth and spat messily before reaching down again, and Mark didn’t hesitate this time as he grabbed Beck’s hand and tugged him up, down, and up again.

And then he realized that it wasn’t just spit, it was- oh, god, it was _Mark_ on his hand-

They breathed in tandem as they moved, as their hands slid up, down, up, down-

And then Beck made a sharp, keening sound and Mark reached over the bed with his free hand and picked up the old shirt he’d tossed away and threw it over them and-

Beck panted, coming with a ragged pant into the shirt, quivering for a moment or two. He held his breath through his teeth, Mark’s hand tight over his own, before letting it out in a rush, collapsing back onto the sheets.

Mark swept the clean side of the shirt over his chest and against his palm, not saying a word. He rolled the thing into a ball and dropped it over the side of the bed, wrinkling his nose. It was due to be jettisoned in a few days, anyway. He gave it one last glance before flopping back down onto the bed beside Chris. And for a few moments, they just breathed.

Neither of them spoke.

Mark yawned, breath sliding out easily for the first time in months.

He closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((i said it wouldnt happen  
> buuuuut it did  
> again, all swaps between Chris/Beck and Mark/Watney are intentional  
> beta read by [alorevfritz](http://www.alorevfritz.tumblr.com), thank you!!))  
> ((and thank you for all of the comments and messages- without which, this would probably have just been abandoned entirely- xoxoxo))
> 
>  
> 
> (( ~~might~~ will probably not update again for a while))


	32. Chapter 32

**Log Entry: Mission Day 752**

I have to say, being in space is really, _really_ boring when you have nothing to do.

I’ve been spending most of my free time down in the gym. It’s amazing how much you learn to love running when you’ve been stuck either a) in a tiny rover where you can’t even stand up, or b) outside in an EVA suit where it takes five minutes to take a single step, for a month and a half.

I’m sure Beck will be pleased that I’m keeping in shape. Which is kind of funny, I hardly ever see him in the gym. It’s probably just the way our schedules are aligned. I’d love to see him on the treadmill sometime, I bet that’s a sight to remember.

So, yeah. Lewis thinks I’m still not focused- and really, who can blame her?- so she passed all the botany duties onto Beck for now. He took care of my plants when I was having my stay-cation on Mars, so I guess it makes sense that he’d be the one taking care of them now.

I’m less mad about it now than I was when she first told me. And sure, it sucks, not being able to take care of your plants- aka, not being able to do _literally the one thing NASA sent you up to do in the first place-_ but it’s not the end of the world. I guess.

No, you know what? Fuck you, NASA.

I’ve been ignoring the goddamn interview questions for weeks, now. I’ve already sent back at least fifty of those things, and now they’re getting worse. It’s not just straight up questions, now they want me to write some sort of bullshit essay about my time on Mars. Like I haven’t spent enough time writing and talking about it already. I’ve got an idea; why don’t you send a team of journalists up there to recover my old log entries? That would clear some of this up.

It’s not really an essay. They just want more in-depth answers instead of the shitty ones I’ve been giving them. And again, I don’t really blame them. I’m just being a stubborn asshole, like usual.

But if I ever want to see Rasputin, Rover, or Remus again, I’ll just have to play by their rules. I guess they told Lewis to do whatever she had to do to get me to cooperate- and by “they”, I mean NASA’s PR team. They’re ruthless, I swear to god.

So, naturally, I’ve been procrastinating as much as I can. I.E. running on the treadmill every chance I get.

It’s nice, actually. It’s amazing how I’ve spent so long on this ship and the perspective still sometimes gets me. You can run on the treadmill for an hour and watch the rest of the ship turn around you, or you can realize that the ship’s not the one turning, _you_ are.

It’s nice to just watch the stars, sometimes. I never had the chance, back in the Hab. And even when I was in the rover, it was pretty hard to see out of the windows- what with the dust and the whole Big Three stuffed on top. But now, I can see the stars whenever I want. They don’t look anything like they do from home.

Look at me, getting all sappy. You’d think a year and a half abandoned on a planet would get me to kick the habit. Being poetic’s not really my thing.

I still haven’t found an opportunity to use _Beck_ fast in bed, but it’ll happen. Someday.

Speaking of which. I can now cross _space-sex_ off my bucket list.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (([congrats scott kelly!!!! welcome home!!](http://www.theverge.com/2016/3/1/11138948/nasa-scott-kelly-coming-home-year-in-space-iss-livestream)))


	33. Chapter 33

 “Hey Watney, Teen Gossip wants to know who your dream girl would be,” Johanssen called, from the main computer. They didn’t have anything exciting scheduled for the data dump that day, so Johanssen and Lewis were the only two paying close attention to the files before they were sent off.

“Oh, come on!” Martinez cried, abandoning the four-way game of Gin between him, Beck, Vogel, and Watney. “That was my question!”

“Yeah, well,” Watney said, tossing his hand into the deck as Beck displayed his hand- three aces and four jacks- “the next time you survive two years on Mars, you can answer all the gossip questions you want.”

“Just be grateful they aren’t asking you if your breasts make any difference in 0-g maneuverability,” Johanssen grumbled.

“Do they?” Watney asked, without missing a beat.

“Say that to me again and you’ll find out.”

“I know that’s supposed to be a threat,” Watney said, “but it’s really starting to sound more like an invitation.” Beside him, Vogel snorted.

“Girls, girls, calm down,” Beck said, having already shuffled the pack of cards twice. He began dealing them out new hands. “Anything actually interesting over there?” he called.

“They’re upping the paparazzi portion,” Johanssen said, shrugging. “Most of it’s for Watney, but there’s a few magazines that want articles about us. Vogel, you’ve got a video.”

“You know the drill,” Lewis said, tiredly. “Keep it professional.”

“Fine,” Martinez said, picking up his hand and sorting through the cards. “Cause I was gonna tell ‘em all about Watney's robot clone and its _amazing_ new orgy capabilities-”

“Excuse you,” Watney said, “I’m not a robot clone, I’m an _alien_ that took Mark Watney’s appearance when he died on Mars a year and a half ago, do your research-”

“Children, all of you,” Lewis grumbled, but she wasn’t able to hide the small smile on her face.

* * *

 Chris Beck was exhausted.

“Okay,” he said, rubbing the last dregs of sleep from his eyes. “Let’s see.”

Watney, sitting on the edge of Chris’s, bed, kicked his feet.

“Up.”

Mark lifted his arm up off his lap, leaning back to let Beck slide the blood pressure cuff down past his wrist. Beck squeezed the rubber pump for a few moments, eyes focused on the pressure gauge.

Mark tapped his foot on the floor.

“You know,” he said, “you’re really bad at this.”

Beck dropped the pump.

“What?” he spluttered, scrambling to pick it up again. “Bad at- excuse me?”

“You know,” Mark said.

“I… no,” Beck said, taking the pump back and squeezing it. “I really don’t.”

 _“You know,”_ Mark said, gesturing with his hands. Beck frowned. “Like- the whole-” His hand gestures became more erratic as he struggled to think of the right words. He snapped his fingers, grinning.

“What?”

 _“You might feel a small prick,”_ Mark said, raising an eyebrow. _“But don’t worry. It isn’t hard.”_

“I- have no idea what you’re talking about,” Beck said, shaking his head. “I’m giving you a thorough medical exam.”

“Well, yeah,” Mark said, shrugging. “But you’re _supposed_ to say stuff that means ‘let’s have sex right now’. Like _Don’t worry, it’s not my first time doing this._ ” He glanced over Beck’s shoulder at his laptop’s medical chart. “Not _your seven hundredth hemoglobin report this week is acceptably boring._ I mean, it’s _hemoglobin._ How important can it be?”

“Very important, as a matter of fact.” Beck ripped the blood pressure cuff off with more force than was perhaps necessary, frowning. “If your hemoglobin levels deviated from your standard norm- in fact, if they were elevated to a severe level, then I would be very concerned about possible _what,_ uh, are you- are you doing?”

“Something more interesting than talking about hemoglobin for fifteen minutes,” Mark murmured, from where he was- suddenly and inexplicably- mouthing at Beck’s neck.

“I was not going to talk for _fifteen minutes-_ Mark-” He made a small, sharp sound as Mark grazed his teeth over his skin, just barely enough to feel it. “Mark,” he tried again, “I _really_ have to get this report done.”

Reluctantly, Mark pulled away and sat back down on the bed, folding his arms. “You have to be the most boring person I’ve ever met,” he grumbled. “I bet your handwriting’s even boring.”

And without warning, he yanked the notepad out of Chris’s hands and scanned it. Chris sighed, reaching for it, but Mark held it out of his reach.

“Look at this, I can read every word,” he said, laughing. “Aren’t you supposed to have terrible handwriting? You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” He snorted, looking at the list. “Look- _2,000 daily calorie intake,_ he read, in a terrible impression of Chris’s voice. _“Stable blood pressure. Minimal nightmares-_ wait, what?”

Chris blinked. “What?”

“Beck,” Mark said slowly, “I… haven’t had a nightmare in a month.” He frowned at Chris’s uncomfortable expression. “Right?” he prompted.

“Well,” Chris said.

“Isn’t that what you said?” Mark prodded. “You said I wasn’t having nightmares.”

“I mean.”

“Wait, _am_ I having nightmares?”

“I-” Chris, ears burning, set his pen down. “On occasion. Sometimes.”

“How would you even know-” Mark cut off, suddenly. “Did you- did you hook a biomonitor on me while I was asleep?”

“What- no!” Chris stammered.

“How did you wake up but not me?” Mark demanded. “What, have you not been sleeping?”

“I-” Chris swallowed back something thick and heavy in his throat.

“You what? _Talk_ to me.”

“Yes, all right, I’ve- I’ve been watching you,” Chris said, setting his notepad down beside his laptop. Mark groaned, sliding his head in his hands. “Because it’s my job, and I- I was worried, okay-”

“Okay,” Mark said, trying to encourage him.

“I was just… waiting.”

“Waiting,” Mark repeated, unimpressed.

“Waiting,” Chris said, nodding. “You… sometimes, you. I.” He sighed. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“You were waiting for me to have a nightmare, how’s that hard to say?”

“I was,” Chris admitted. “But- I- just because you…” He groaned, pushing his hair back. “I’m not proud of this, okay?”

Mark’s frustration, thick though it had been, softened into something more resembling concern.

“Hey,” he said. “Look, I’m an asshole, I get it. And you might piss me off sometimes, sure, but.” He looked up at Chris, raising an eyebrow. “Come on. It can’t be that bad. I’m not gonna throw you out the airlock, or anything.”

He reached out for Chris’s hand and took it, gently.

“We’re… I don’t know what we are,” Mark admitted. “But we’re something. And I’m not gonna lie, I’ve liked your ass for a while- your _ass,_ mind you. So, whatever it is.” He rubbed his thumb over the top of Chris’s hand. “You can trust me.”

Chris swallowed again, looking down at their hands. His was trembling, but Mark’s was steady as anything. “I,” he said, “this is a bad idea.” He yanked his hand away, eyes darting to his lap.

Mark blinked. “What?”

“This is a bad idea,” Chris repeated. “We… we shouldn’t do this.” He stood from his chair, grabbing his notepad.

“I don’t understand.” Mark stood in front of him, half reaching out towards him. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, it’s- it’s not you,” Chris said, shaking his head. “It’s just-”

“I don’t understand.” Mark frowned. “We- I thought we fixed this.” He gestured between them with a hand.

Chris, who had retreated to the doorway, looked down at his feet. “Yeah,” he said, and turned away. “Me too.”

And then he was gone, and Mark was left with nothing but an empty room- and somehow, an even emptier heart.

* * *

 

“Come on,” Johanssen had said, the moment she’d seen Mark. “I still have my backup copy of _Leather Goddesses.”_

“I beat your high score back on Mars,” Mark had said, cracking a smile.

“Impossible,” Johanssen had said, and that’s how they had ended up here, in Johanssen’s room, with the laptop balanced between their laps.

He was halfway through the second world when Johanssen dropped her head on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said.

Mark leaned over and blew in her ear.

* * *

 

_[accessing account: beth_johanssen]_

_[please enter password:____]_

_[access granted]_

_[open: program: aresIM]_

_[new message: account: chris_beck: time: 10:31 PM]_

_[chris_beck]_

_Can I talk to you?_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_I’m not going to be your counselor for the rest of the trip you know that right_

_[chris_beck]_

_If you don’t want to talk, fine._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_No I will youre an asshole and youre making him cry_

_It’s my civic duty_

_[chris_beck]_

_I’m not an asshole._

_Did I really make him cry?_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_No_

_But thats not the point_

_[chris_beck]_

_Don’t say things like that, Beth. Jesus._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Johanssen_

_[chris_beck]_

_Sorry._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Look_

_You’re tearing him apart_

_Lisa_

_I mean not to quote the worst movie in the world or anything but_

_You really are_

_[chris_beck]_

_It’s not like I meant to._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_It doesnt matter whether or not you meant to_

_You did_

_And youre going to fix it_

_[chris_beck]_

_I can’t._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Why the hell not_

_[chris_beck]_

_I can’t._

_It wouldn’t be fair to him._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Oh for the love of_

_I’ve had to watch him watching your ass for two years don’t fuck this up because of some bullshit ‘im not good enough for him’ melodrama_

_You’ve seen romantic comedies you know how that turns out_

_[chris_beck]_

_You don’t understand._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_So make me_

_[chris_beck]_

_It’s none of your business._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_For chrissake_

_If youre not going to talk to him about it you could at least talk to someone_

_Better me than a gossip mag_

_[seen by chris_beck]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_You’re the doctor here you know about counseling shit_

_Isn’t it supposed to be good for you to let out your feelings_

_Or something_

_[chris_beck]_

_I slept with him._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_I know._

_[chris_beck]_

_You know?_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Dude that morning when he got breakfast he looked happier than he did when we brought him back on board_

_That was the face of a man whos finally tapped the ass hes been watching for years_

_I know that face_

_[chris_beck]_

_Okay, fair enough. But that’s not everything._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_I smell a gossip story_

_[chris_beck]_

_More like a fair case for my resignation._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Stop being so dramatic_

_[chris_beck]_

_You know we’ve been sleeping together for a while._

_Not like that._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Yes jesus everyone knows_

_Its not a secret_

_[chris_beck]_

_I never said it was._

_Look, it was supposed to be a way to stop his nightmares._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Supposed to be_

_Not working out?_

_[chris_beck]_

_It was working fantastically, actually. He used to get them almost nightly, now they barely come at all, and he doesn’t even remember them._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Right_

_So_

_Whats the problem_

_[chris_beck]_

_I know because I stayed awake watching him._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Thats_

_Only a little creepy_

_You’re a doctor so its ok_

_[chris_beck]_

_He does things in his sleep sometimes._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Things_

_Like try to hit you_

_[chris_beck]_

_No._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Then I don’t see the problem_

_Lots of people do weird stuff in their sleep_

_It’s not like he was touching you or anything_

_[seen by: chris_beck]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Oh_

_You didnt_

_[chris_beck]_

_I didn’t know what to do!_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_What the fuck_

_[chris_beck]_

_It wasn’t right, I know that._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Look it_

_It was a mistake_

_I’m sure hell forgive you_

_It was a one time mistake its like something you do in college_

_You get drunk and make out with your friends it happens_

_Or you make out with your drunk friends whatever_

_I’m getting off topic_

_[chris_beck]_

_Why did everyone else have a more interesting college life than me?_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Because youre the most boring person in the world_

_[chris_beck]_

_Did he tell you that?_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Maybe_

_[chris_beck]_

_He wasn’t drunk, Beth, he was asleep. And it wasn’t just once._

_It happened a lot._

_He started it the first time, but I started it the next time, and it just kept happening._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Okay_

_Maybe crossing the line of creepy a little more there_

_I think you should talk to him_

_[chris_beck]_

_I can’t. It would break him._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_If you feel bad enough about it then he deserves to know_

_Because right now he feels like hes done something wrong because you were an asshole_

_And thats the last thing he needs right now_

_[chris_beck]_

_Since when have you cared about what he needs?_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Since always?_

_He’s part of our crew and hes our friend we went back for him because thats what he needed_

_Don’t make this into some contest of who cares for him most it doesnt matter we all do_

_You want to bone him_

_Fine_

_You want to care about him_

_Fine_

_But youre not getting anywhere moping around and not giving him answers_

_[chris_beck]_

_He’s going to hate me._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Maybe_

_But you can put your big boy pants on and suck it up_

_You fucked up you know you did_

_[seen by chris_beck]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_You really want to make him pay for it?_

_[chris_beck]_

_You’re right._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Of course i am_

_[chris_beck]_

_But not now._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_When?_

_[chris_beck]_

_Soon._

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Promise me_

_[seen by chris_beck]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Chris._

_[chris_beck]_

_All right. I promise._

* * *

 

_[accessing account: mark_watney]_

_[please enter password:____]_

“Shit.”

_[password rejected.]_

_[forgot password?]_

“Johanssen? I don’t remember my password!”

“What?”

 _“I don’t remember my password-_ come over here so you can reset it.”

“Reset it yourself, I’m busy.”

“I don’t know your-”

_“It’s password12345, just reset it yourself!”_

“Seriously? This is the password of the woman who hacked through NASA’s computers.”

_“I heard that!”_

_[please enter password: ____]_

_[access granted]_

“Oh! Watney, close down my IM account before you do anything.”

Mark snorted.

“Oh, you’re asking for trouble.”

_[open: program: aresIM]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((mark nOOOOOO))
> 
> ((gonna admit  
> i have nothing written past here  
> i know how its gonna resolve but uh  
> no promises on when itll come out  
> im posting this as my birthday gift to ME))
> 
> ((oh yeah also as a sidenote: im not looking for concrit on this thing- if im looking for concrit, I'll get a beta reader, and this is unbeta'd. I just read a book and saw a movie and this came out. I know a lot of it is probably rushed and terrible, and I'm not trying to make a masterpiece. so I appreciate comments that are trying to be constructive, but that's really not what I'm looking for :) (however if you see basic typos, feel free to point them out)  
> that being said, comments are still love! They always brighten my day :)  
> sorry for the big ass author's note lol))


	34. Chapter 34

**Log Entry: Mission Day 755**

So. Million-dollar question.

What do you do when your best friend (can I call him my best friend? I don’t have very many closer friends. Fuck it, he’s never reading these anyway, I’ll call him whatever I like) has been feeling you up in your sleep for the last, oh, who the fuck knows how long?

Bonus points: he’s got a great ass and you’ve been hoping to tap it for even longer.

I could be a sane person, and tell him to fuck off. And sleep on my own for the rest of forever.

But I’ve never been one of those, so. Why start now?

I mean. I’m not happy about it. I’m fucking furious, actually. I’m not going to ‘break’ if you tell me something, I’m not getting ‘torn apart’ by any of this, I’m not a piece of tissue paper. Sure, it sucks when you’re an asshole and sleep with me one night and act all perfect and happy for a while and then just suddenly tell me to fuck off without an explanation, but I’m not going to _fall apart_ over it, I’m a fucking adult, what the fuck

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I think I can excuse myself for getting a little worked up over this. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to worry about anything that wasn’t immediately about to kill me. Stuff like this doesn’t feel like it should be a big deal, but it is. It’s not ‘rover falling over on the way to Schiaparelli’ kind of big deal, or ‘the entire Hab blew up’ kind of big deal. But… it feels like it.

I used to have nightmares back on Mars, all the time. They weren’t usually ‘oh look this thing happened and now I’m dead’, like the Hab ripping in half, or my helmet falling off, or something like that.  There was one in particular, I remember.

I’d be walking around, like normal, maybe tending to my plants. And I’d know something was wrong, somehow. I didn’t know what it was, or how to find it, but I _knew_ it was wrong. I’d forgotten something, or I’d done something, and if I didn’t fix it, I was going to die.

I’d always have to take an extra half hour or so in the morning after waking up, to just check everything. I made a list after it happened enough times, so I wouldn’t have to waste time thinking about everything I had to check.

I mean, when your whole existence is based on making sure you don’t fuck up and die somehow, I think that’s a pretty by-the-numbers nightmare. Still. Doesn’t mean it didn’t suck.

But it always gave me this knot of worry in my stomach. You know, like when you’ve got a huge exam tomorrow and it’s three in the morning and you still haven’t studied and your professor’s the nicest dude you’ve ever met and you know he’s going to give you _that look_ when you walk in and bomb the whole thing. Or when you say something shitty to someone and realize you’ve fucked up your relationship with them, probably forever. Or, yeah, when you realize you weren’t keeping count of the oxygen being absorbed by the oxygenators, and you’ve turned your only base for survival into a gigantic Hydrogen bomb.

This is like that. I feel like that.

It’s amazing how worry can feel the same, whether it’s from impending death or from thinking you’ve pissed off someone close to you. It always feels the same. It’s like your brain doesn’t care if you’re about to die or if it doesn’t matter, it’s going to fuck you over all the same. You can tell yourself that you’re going to be fine, but that won’t do a damn thing. And you’ll worry and worry over nothing until something finally clicks and you realize it doesn’t matter, and then you can chase the worry away for a little while.

But what the hell do I know? I’m not a psychiatrist.

* * *

  **Log Entry: Mission Day 756**

Amazingly enough, I’m still hung up on this. I took some time to think about it, because if I don’t give myself time to think about things I’m worried about, I usually end up doing something stupid. But no, I’m still worrying just the same.

Well, I say ‘worrying.’ It’s less ‘worry’ and more ‘frustration.’

It would be one thing if he didn’t want to tell me because I was scared about how I’d react. It’s another entirely to do it for what I’m assuming he thought was my own good. I mean, Jesus.

I’m sick of this. I’m sick of floating around here like I’m an old memento no one has the heart to throw out. I’m sick of everyone treating me like fucking glass.

No, you know what? Everyone _used_ to tiptoe around me, everyone except Beck, and now Beck’s the only one doing it.

I don’t know why I thought he understood. I don’t know why I thought anyone could understand.

Listen to me, I sound like an eighteen-year-old who thinks he’s the first person in the world to discover nihilism.

And no, I’m not mad about the other stuff. The sleeping-with-Beck stuff. Why not? I don’t know.

Maybe if it was someone else, I’d feel differently about it. Maybe if it was someone I didn’t know, or Martinez or Johanssen or Vogel, I’d care more.

But it’s not.

And I don’t know _why_ it’s different because it’s him. I guess it always has been. I don’t care about the others the way I do about him. It’s not like I have to act like a different person around him to impress him, but it sort of feels like that? I’m not going to change who I am because I’m worried about what he thinks- but I guess I am, a little. I guess everyone does that to everyone they know, to some extent.

I don’t know why. It bothers me. It shouldn’t bother me. And I don’t want to care, but I do, I mean- not in the way that I care about what Lewis thinks about me, because she’s my boss, of course I care. But I mean in another way.

I don’t even know what I’m talking about. This is stupid. It’s not like I’m

 

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((its not like you're what mark  
> its not like yoU R E _W H A T_ ))


	35. Chapter 35

_[accessing account: mark_watney]_

_[please enter password: turnthebeataround420]_

_[access granted]_

_[open: program: aresIM]_

_[new message: account: beth_johanssen: time: 9:12 PM]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_You’re a goddamn snoop watney_

_[mark_watney]_

_i really dont think you get to be mad about this_

_seriously_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_You’re right_

_[mark_watney]_

_well?_

_why the hell didnt you tell me_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_It wasn’t my secret to tell_

_[mark_watney]_

_secret_

_it wasnt a secret_

_it was a thing that happened_

_involving me_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Involving you and Beck, not you and me_

_[mark_watney]_

_whatever_

_you didnt tell me i found out on my own_

_theres that problem taken care of_

_so i guess were done here_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_I need to talk to you_

_[mark_watney]_

_hahaha_

_no_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_I’m serious_

_I wasn’t going to tell you about this stuff either but I think you need to know_

_[mark_watney]_

_if its really important hell tell me himself_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_No, he won’t_

_[mark_watney]_

_well_

_i dont have anything better to do i guess_

_talk away_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Look_

_When you_

_[seen by: mark_watney]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_When we thought you_

_[seen by: mark_watney]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_We were all affected_

_I mean obviously_

_I’m okay, Martinez is okay, Vogel is okay Lewis is_

_She’s dealing_

_She’ll get there_

_But I don’t know about him_

_[seen by: mark_watney]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_He wouldn’t talk to us for a while, a couple of weeks at least_

_NASA got on his ass about his diet, he wouldn’t eat_

_I don’t think he slept all that much either_

_I mean we all went through it but he never stopped_

_Even after we knew you were still alive he just_

_[seen by: mark_watney]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Something changed_

_He changed_

_I wanted to help him but there was nothing I could do. It was like he broke_

_It tore him apart_

_And he’s afraid itll happen again_

_[mark_watney]_

_im not going to break_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_I wasn’t talking about you_

_[seen by: mark_watney]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_He needs help_

_[mark_watney]_

_I need help_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_I’m not saying you don’t im saying he does_

_It hasn’t been a walk in the park for us here_

_[mark_watney]_

_oh a walk in the park_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Watney_

_[mark_watney]_

_oh im sorry_

_obviously_

_i wasted all that time on mars only thinking of myself_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Watney you know thats not what I meant_

_[mark_watney]_

_oh do i_

_do i really_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Yes_

_And you’re trying to be an asshole to make me shut up because you don’t want to talk about this_

_But im serious_

_[seen by: mark_watney]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_He’s not ok_

_You can be angry at him if you want, you deserve to be but hes not ok_

_He’s working himself to the bone because Lewis gave him all your duties on top of his own_

_He’s doing better now that you’re here but hes not ok_

_He wont talk to me ive tried_

_I love both of you and I hate seeing you punch each other in the gut whenever you speak_

_So just talk to him_

_Please_

_[mark_watney]_

_i dont have anything to say to him_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Yeah you do_

_[mark_watney]_

_will u just_

_stop_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_No_

_[mark_watney]_

_i miss mars_

_i miss the silence_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_No you don’t_

_[mark_watney]_

_stop that_

_stop it_

_stop telling me what im supposed to_

_stop it_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Just talk to him_

_[mark_watney]_

_fuck_

_you_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Watney_

_[seen by: mark_watney]_

_[beth_johanssen]_

_Mark._

_[seen by: mark_watney]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((aaand the wordcount still hurts my soul  
> hooray more arguments  
> i love the IM format ok im sorry if you hate it but i love it SO MUCH  
> ty to everyone who's left a comment, i haven't been replying to them bc i like seeing them in my inbox but i love every single one of you!!))


	36. Chapter 36

“Watney, I didn’t want to have to do this.”

Watney tried not to make his wince visible. Judging by the raised eyebrow he got in return, he’d been unsuccessful.

“But you’ve left me no choice.”

He winced again, hyper-aware of Lewis’s eyes on him. Lewis sighed, crossing her legs and setting her clasped hands on the Rec table.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Watney blinked.

“Oh no,” he said. _“Nooooo.”_ The last syllable slid up in pitch until it hit the break in his voice, then careened back down, settling comfortably somewhere in the middle of his range. “I’m not taking counseling sessions from my CO,” he groaned, scooting his chair back an inch or so from the table.

“I’m not your CO.” Lewis fixed him with a look.

“Beck’s the counselor here,” Watney said. “Not you.”

“And he’s doing a hell of a hell of a job with that, isn’t he?” Lewis’s lips quirked into a smile, albeit a wan one.

“Why don’t we leave the counseling to the stuck up doctors, and the commander-ing to the stuck up-”

“You want me to command?” Lewis cocked her head to the side. “Fine. I command you to talk to me.”

Watney groaned. “Will you  _stop it?”_

“No.” Lewis’s smirk vanished without a trace. “I’ll not tolerate this on my ship. We left as a team, and we’re coming back the same way- if I have to give you all twenty minute lectures to keep you in line, then so be it.”

“I don’t need a lecture!” Watney threw back his head, arms crossed. “Oh my god, I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” Lewis frowned. “You’re recovering from a traumatic experience, of course it’s going to take time to adjust back to-”

“I’m fine. I’m fine, I’m  _fine.”_ Watney squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t need to hear this.”

“Yes, you do.” Lewis leaned forward. “I’m trying to help you, Watney.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, not even looking at her.

“You need help,” Lewis said, not missing a beat. “And I’m willing to give it to you. But if you won’t cooperate, there’s nothing I can do.”

“I don’t need anything!” Watney sat up, chair creaking against the Rec floor. “Will you  _stop it?”_

“Stop-”

“All of you, I swear to god.” Watney rubbed his eyes furiously. “I’m done,” he said, standing from the table. “I don’t need a lecture.”

Lewis sighed. “Fine. But I expect you to behave and perform your job like you are, if you say so.” She cocked her head to the side. “I hope that won’t be a problem.”

Watney shoved his chair back and strode out of the room.

“No, ma’am.”

* * *

 “What do you call four Mexicans stuck in quicksand?”

Watney split the deck of cards in half.

“Shoot,” he said.

_“Quatro cinco.”_

Watney snorted, shuffling the cards. The two stacks fell apart under his fingers, scattering across the table. “Shit.”

Martinez grabbed a handful and handed them back over to Watney, who slipped them back into the stack and tried to shuffle it again.

“Okay, so there’s a Spanish magician.”

Watney split the deck in half. “Sure.”

“And he says ‘I’m going to vanish, on the count of three’.”

Watney checked the undersides of each pile, curling his thumb under the bottoms. “Yeah.”

“And he says  _‘uno… dos.’_ And he disappears, without a  _tres.”_

The stacks scattered over the table again as Watney cackled, dropping them. “Oh my god, do you know anything other than Mexican jokes?”

“That last one wasn’t Mexican, technically.”

Watney shrugged. “It counts.”

“One more.” Martinez grinned.

“One more,” Watney agreed, reaching out and sliding all of the cards back.

“What do you call a Mexican on the moon?”

Watney frowned, arranging the cards back into a neat stack. “A problem?”

Martinez shook his head. “An  _astronaut.”_

Watney snorted, dividing the deck. He shook his head in tandem with Martinez, finally shuffling the cards. They came together in a messy stack, and he tapped it on the table a few times.

“Nice.” Martinez reached out. “I’ll deal?”

“Sure.” Watney handed the deck over, and Martinez began dealing them out. “You know,” he said, “I’m  never playing Uno with you.”

“Yeah?” Martinez said, egging him on. He finished dealing and set the stack on the table. “Why’s that?”

“You’ll just steal the green card.”

Martinez, who had just picked up his hand, smacked Watney with the cards. “You’re terrible.”

“And you’re gonna lose- three out of five, was it?”

“Four out of seven.” Martinez looked over the edge of his cards. “You’re on.”

“You’re not usually this bad at Blackjack.”

Martinez shrugged, eyes focused on his cards. “Guess it’s not a good day.”

“Oh, don’t lie to me.” Watney scowled. “I know what you’re doing.”

Martinez moved a card from one side of his hand to the other. “Well, you hate losing,” he pointed out. “You bitch about it.”

“I do not bitch,” Watney retorted, giving Martinez a scandalized look.

“Seriously?” Martinez cracked a smile. “All you do is bitch.”

Watney narrowed his eyes. “I happen to bitch the perfect amount for someone in my situation.”

Martinez set his hand down on the table.

“Did you,” he said, “did you just quote  _Malcom in the Middle?”_

“You started it,” Watney said.

“You’re too young to remember Malcom in the middle,” Martinez moaned.

Watney shrugged. “I had a phase.”

Martinez narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

* * *

 Chris Beck woke with a start, something lodged in his throat making it impossible to breathe.

After a moment of panic, he realized it was his own tongue, and he slid it out of the way, sucking in a breath. Something just behind his ribcage twinged, and the breath shattered out of his lungs as if falling down a staircase, hitting every step on the way.

The air around him was cold and clammy, and he shivered.

He sat up and reached blindly for his laptop, perched on his desk. It was cold underneath his fingers, but he pulled it onto his lap anyway, ignoring the sting of cold on his legs. He lifted it open and read over his notes.

Page one, page two, page three. He scanned the files detailing Watney’s medical examinations since being brought back on board.

He was alive.

Chris let out a breath, closing the laptop again.

Mark was alive. Mark was here on the  _Hermes,_ alive.

He didn’t get nightmares as frequently as Mark had. Mark’s had been nightly at first, weekly eventually, and were shaping up to be almost monthly. It was success, as far as Chris was concerned. Soon enough, there might be a day that passed by when Watney didn’t think of his experience on Mars once.

He took in a slow breath, rubbing the cold sweat from his forehead.

The nightmares had been a possibility, all along. But he hadn’t expected them to be quite this intense. He’d tried to anticipate having to watch Mark slip through his fingers again and again, tried to prepare himself for the inevitable repeats of the storm, of the crash of the satellite dish and Mark’s words shattering into a single hoarse scream, of looking at four other crewmembers and realizing that the fifth one was missing, that they’d forgotten him years ago-

But it was proving to be easier said than done.  

He exhaled and counted to ten.

* * *

 

 Mark Watney opened his eyes to dirty-white canvas coating.

His first thought was  _no,_ his second thought was  _how,_ and his third thought was  _fuck._

He stood, shakily, and began to take stock.

The Hab was as he remembered it. When he pushed the plastic covering back, he could see the remains of his potato farm, vacant trails of dust along the ground. Footprints marked tracks back and forth across the dirt, the only recording that he’d ever been here. Along the wall was his list of checkmarks, Sols numbered neatly from one to…

To 550.

“No,” he said, aloud. The sound traveled to the edge of the Hab and stopped, the canvas doing little to propel the sound. “No,” he said again, louder.

And then he remembered.

He remembered the  _Iris_ probe failing, he remembered the message Venkat had sent back over  _Pathfinder._ He remembered the last two words being  _I’m sorry._

He was here. He had never been on the  _Hermes_ at all, had he?

He doubled over as his throat closed very suddenly. The air was thick and heavy in his throat, as if he were drowning. It was hot, too hot- and humid, how much water was being held in the air alone, he’d have to find some way to harvest it to make sure none of it was lost, but that didn’t even make sense, he neither lost nor gained water, he’d calculated this, he’d  _calculated this,_ but he’d calculated before and he’d been wrong, what if he was wrong about this, maybe it was getting out somewhere else, a leak in the Hab fabric maybe, was the airlock about to blow again, he wasn’t inside with a helmet and a suit, he was in his pajamas in the middle of the burning Hab and he was about to  _die-_

Mark woke with a start, fisting at his sheets.

His old room was  _sweltering._ His shirt stuck to his chest even as he tried to peel it off, sweat sticking to the mesh fabric. His hair was plastered to his forehead, sticky and matted. His throat couldn’t suck in enough air to satiate his lungs, and his collar was too tight around his windpipe. He tugged at it desperately, trying to throw his shirt off.

Shakily, he stumbled out of the sweat soaked bed.

* * *

 

“Oh.”

Chris raised an eyebrow at Mark, who was stood halfway through the doorway.

“I thought you’d be,” Mark said, and swept his arm in a vague gesture. “Less awake.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Chris said. A few months ago, maybe he would have added a sly smile alongside the words, but not now. He looked at Mark, taking in the soaked state of his shirt and the way his arms trembled at his sides.

“Do you-”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Mark said.

“Do you want to sit down,” Chris finished, flatly.

“Oh,” Mark said. “I…”

“There’s room enough,” Chris said, scooting over to make space. The blankets were still mussed, lopsided, but he knew Mark wouldn’t care. Indeed- Mark took only a second to think about the offer before sighing to himself and heading over to the bed. It dipped under his weight- much more so than it had, just after he’d come back on board. Chris smiled a little at the thought.

 _“Do_ you want to talk about it?” he prompted, gently.

“No.”

Chris sighed. “You know ignoring them isn’t going to make them go away.”

Mark groaned, letting his head fall back against the wall with a dull _thud._ “You can’t even let me have my own nightmares in peace, Jesus,” he said.

“Not a chance.”

Mark moaned again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look,” he said.

“If you’re going to say  _I’m fine,”_ Chris started.

“Oh my god.” Mark blinked, rubbing his eyes. “Oh my god, will you shut up for three seconds.” He slammed a hand onto his lap, leaning back against the wall. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it, why does that have to come with a thirty-page citation on  _why?”_

“It doesn’t,” Chris admitted. “But it’s not going to change unless you do something.”

“Yeah, well.” Mark shrugged. “I don’t want to do anything.”

“Then you’re not the Mark Watney I knew,” Chris countered.

“Know,” Mark corrected.

Chris shrugged.

“Beck,” Mark said.

“Things have changed,” Chris began.

“Things change,” Mark said, “people don’t.” He frowned. “I don’t care what Johanssen tells me, you’re still the same stick in the mud I met back in training.”

“Well,” Chris said, uncomfortably. “People change.”

“I haven’t,” Mark said, sitting up a little straighter.

“We all have.”

“What are you even talking about?” Mark crossed his arms. “I’m still the same me- just because you left me on Mars for a year and a half doesn’t mean you brought someone else back- why the hell can’t you understand that?”

“I do, I do,” Chris said, holding up his hands. “But that doesn’t mean things haven’t changed- you can’t just ignore what happened and move on like it didn’t.”

“Why the hell do we have to talk about it? What happened  _happened,_ nothing’s going to change that. Talking about how I feel isn’t going to change how I feel about-” Mark caught himself at the last second, swallowing back the word that wanted to come out. “-about everything,” he finished.

“Mark, we’re your friends.  _I’m_ your friend. You have people to talk to,” Chris pleaded.

“So what does that even matter?”

“You haven’t had anyone to talk to-”

_“I don’t need anyone to talk to!”_

Chris stared, hard. His hands, clenched into fists at his side, stopped trembling.

“That,” Mark said. “That came out wrong.”

“Fine,” Chris said.

“Beck.”

“No. No, I understand.” Chris nodded sharply. He stood from the bed. “You don’t want to talk. So don’t talk.”

“Beck, I’m sorry.”

“Forget it, Watney.”

_“Chris.”_

“Don’t.” Chris’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t try to- to sweet talk your way out of this one, or make some stupid joke.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“We…” Chris sucked in a breath, let it out. “We mutinied for you. We sacrificed years of our lives for you. Does… does that mean  _anything_ to you? I- I’m sick of you treating everything like a goddamn  _joke.”_

“Oh,” Mark said, bravado now back intact. “Oh, you’re sick of me making jokes?”

“Yes,” Chris said. “I am.”

“You know what else gets real old, real fast?”

“No,” Chris said, “and I don’t want to know. But you’re going to tell me anyway, so.” He made a gesture with his hands.

“Fucking,” Mark said, “disco.”

“Fuck off.” Chris scowled. “Fuck you. Don’t speak to me.”

“No, you know what, disco is fucking brutal.” Mark shrugged.

“No,” Chris said. “I’m  _sick_ of your jokes.”

“Well, I was sick of thinking I was going to die, but you know what? Maybe saying dumb shit kept me from-”

Watney broke off, breath following where words should have gone.

“Maybe,” he said, “that’s just the way I am.” He shrugged, making a  _what-can-you-do_ face. “But I guess if I’m a lost cause, that doesn’t matter. Why should you care? I’m gonna break, one of these days.”

 “I don’t think of you as a lost cause,” Chris snapped.

“Oh, yeah? So, that’s why you were never going to tell me, right?”

“Tell you,” Chris repeated, dumbly.

“That you prefer the  _hands on_ approach to medicine?” Mark prompted. Chris winced. Instantly, his posture changed from offence to defense.

“Mark, I didn’t want to-”

“’Break me’?” Mark said, making quotations in the air. “I’m forty-two, not fourteen. If anything was going to ‘break me’, it was spending a year and a half  _abandoned on Mars.”_

“Mark- I’m sorry, all right, I just-” Chris swallowed back his words. “I knew you’d be upset if I told you.”

Mark grit his teeth. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m upset because you  _didn’t.”_

Chris froze.

“Chris, I-” Mark stood too, facing Chris. “I don’t care about any of that.”

Chris stared.

“What?”

Mark shrugged. “I don’t.”

“Mark, you…” Chris ran a hand through his hair. “You should be angry, you- that was a gigantic breach of your privacy- you should be  _furious.”_

“Well.” Mark folded his arms, fixing Chris with a hard stare. “I’m not.”

“But you should-”

“Did you ever stop for a second to consider that maybe I can decide how I feel on my own?” Mark snapped.

Chris opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything. He closed it again, sheepishly.

“Did you ever think that maybe,” Mark continued, “just maybe, I’ve been spending this whole goddamn trip trying to figure out how I feel? Or that maybe I’m sick of people trying to decide that for me?”

Chris bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He sucked it down before Mark could notice, not so much as blinking as the bitter liquid passed over his tongue.

“Did you ever stop in your goddamn ‘we know how Mark feels’ crusade to ask me in the first place?”

“You survived on your own for a year and a half,” Chris tried, “of course you wouldn’t want us trying to coddle you-”

_“How the fuck would you know if I did?”_

Chris fell silent at that.

“Maybe I wanted someone to ask me how I was, maybe I wanted someone to, oh, I don’t know, actually care about my well-being.” He was breathing harder now. “Maybe all I wanted was for someone to  _look at me straight and ask me how I feel.”_

Chris met his gaze, eyes hardening.

“Okay,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Like  _shit!”_ Mark threw up his hands. “Oh! My god! Was that so hard?”

Chris’s fingers itched for his notepad, and he ignored the urge to tug the pen out of his pocket and jot something down on the back of his palm.

“I’m… sorry,” he said instead. “I didn’t realize.”

“Of course you fucking didn’t.” Mark rubbed his eyes, and Chris realized they were red and wet.

“I want to help,” Chris tried. “I’ve been trying to help.” He almost reached for Mark’s hand, but stopped himself at the last second. By his side, his hand twitched. “Just let me fix this.”

“Nothing is  _broken,”_ Mark spat. “Nothing is, I’m not broken-”

“I’m not saying you are,” Chris tried. “I’m saying I want to help you, Watney, I want to-”

He broke off at the hitch in Mark’s breath, and- Oh, he was crying now. Not just red eyes that could be wiped away in a second, but full on crying.

“I just,” Mark said, voice breaking, “I miss you.”

“I’m right here,” Chris said, helplessly.

“You’re right here and- and you’re a hundred and fifty million miles away from me, and- and I  _miss you.”_

Chris swallowed thickly.

“I miss-” Mark rubbed at his eyes again, to no avail. “I miss the you that would- that would punch me in the side if you thought I said something dumb, or- or tell me you drew the short straw whenever we had free time together, or-” He sucked in a breath, sharp through his nose, and held it. His chest spasmed, once, twice, before he let his breath out in a shatter of air.

“I just miss,” he said, “before. I miss when we didn’t have to worry and I didn’t- didn’t have these  _memories.”_

He shook his head.

“And I know things can… never be the way they used to be, but it doesn’t mean I can’t wish for it sometimes.” He took another breath, easier this time.

“I didn’t,” Chris started, and bit his lip. Mark didn’t say anything, so he continued. “I didn’t know,” he said, looking at his lap. “You always seemed…”

Mark sighed. “I didn’t want you to think any less of me.”

“Mark.”

This time, Chris did reach out. He took Mark’s hand in his and pulled it towards him, covering it with both of his own. It was cold and clammy, but he didn’t care. He pressed Mark’s palm flush against his own, already starting to feel it warm under his hands.

“Any  _less of you,”_ he said, giving a hollow laugh. “Mark, you… you’re an astronaut, you walked on Mars, you- I don’t need to tell you, you know. Even if I thought less of you than I did before, I still think more of you than anyone I know.”

“You think I’m broken,” Mark spat, but didn’t take his hand back. “You- you  _look_ at me like I’m broken.”

“Mark.”

Still holding Mark’s hand with his left, he brushed a lock of Mark’s hair from his eyes with his right hand.

“I look at you like I look at the  _sun.”_

Mark looked up at him, finally. “What,” he said, voice cracking. “You tilt your head and squint your eyes a little?”

Chris laughed softly. He looked down at their hands, interlacing their fingers.  

“Things… are never going to be the way they were,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”

Mark nodded. “I know. But.” He looked at their hands, too. “Not everything was perfect back then, either.”

“I want to help you,” Chris said.

“I want you to stop assuming I need help,” Mark said, “and maybe ask me what I need instead.”

“Okay,” Chris said. “Okay, what do you need?”

“Right now,” Mark said, “I need you to kiss me.”

“Okay,” Chris said.

“And then,” Mark said, “I need you to walk back out that door and close it behind you.” He sucked in a breath, then let it out. “And give me  _time.”_

Chris swallowed.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((oh my god an actual chapter  
> with actual length and actual writing
> 
> faiiiirrrr warning this is the last i have planned for this, this was the last thing that came out of my little brainstorming session a few weeks back  
> so im not saying theres gonna be another month long hiatus  
> buuuut  
> maybe dont be surprised if there is ;A;
> 
> as always comments=love, thank you so much to everyone who's already left a note, i love you all- you keep this story going more than I do. thanks so much for 100 bookmarks!!))  
> ((edit: also wow holy crap thank you for 350+ followers on my accompanying **[blog](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com)** wOW))


	37. Chapter 37

**Log Entry: Mission Day 766**

I’m _fat._

According to Chris

According to Dr. Beck, I’m about ten pounds overweight. And I know what you’re thinking- “But Mark, doesn’t NASA keep tabs on you and keep you under a strict diet?” And I answer you, yes. Usually. But with the resupply probe and the new form of keeping powdered food, we have more than enough supplies to last us until we get home. And after Beck sent a note to NASA pointing out that it would benefit both my physical and mental health, and (I quote directly here) “for fuck’s sake, he spent a year and a half on nothing but potatoes, let him have this,” NASA gave me permission to eat whatever I want, whenever I want, and all I have to do is log it.

If they want data about long-term effects of eating in space, they’ve got five astronauts who’ve been in this hunk of metal for two years, ready and willing to send all their info back home. One less supply of data won’t matter much.

And that powdered food? (Which is, in scientific terms, the “super duper dehydrated” form of storing food.)

Space waffles.

I’ve been eating space waffles for about three weeks, now. And I’m _fat._

And I don’t know what to do. Not about being fat, about

Jesus, I didn’t think there’d be this much _drama_ when I signed up for the astronaut program all those years ago.

But yeah, this is weird. I mean, back on Mars- if I had a problem and didn’t know what to do, I’d lay out all my options and just pick the one that made me die the least. Which sounds like a joke, but when you actually have to plot out the percentages of a fatal accident happening for every decision you make, it actually makes sense.

But now, nothing I do- short of throwing myself out the airlock- is going to make me actually die. You know what, this isn’t even a problem. If he listened to me at all, he’ll leave the damn subject alone until I bring it up again. We’re adults. We can healthily ignore a problem until it festers away inside of us long enough to explode after something random triggers our frustration.

So my options are: at best, everything turns out sunshine and daisies and we make up and have space sex and whatever and it’s great. At worst, I have seven and a half more months to make awkward small talk. Or have weird hate-sex in between making awkward small talk.

I mean.

I can’t _not_ fuck him.

But, hey, I figure. If you’re in space eating waffles next to a hot guy, and your problems are that there are too many waffles and the hot guy is _too hot-_

You’ve probably got it pretty good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((ffs this isnt even 500 words i hate myself but more importantly 
> 
> **IF YOU DIDNT SEE IT ALREADY GO CHECK OUT THE[AMAZING COVER ART!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5111351/chapters/11759465)**  
>  credit goes to [mmarkwatney,](http://www.mmarkwatney.tumblr.com) who so generously allowed me to put this amazing art on my fic, thank you so much!!


	38. Chapter 38

“I thought we weren’t talking.”

“I said I needed time, not ‘avoid me like the plague.’”

“That’s an overused metaphor.”

 _“You’re_ an overused metaphor.”

Chris snorted, managing to still look dignified even though he was jogging on the ship treadmill. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve to clear it of sweat.

“Well?” he prompted, still running. Mark, who was leaning on the front of the treadmill, shrugged.

“Well what?”

Chris raised an eyebrow and huffed. “You’re here, obviously you want something.”

“Am I not allowed to talk to you like a normal person?”

“You don’t talk to anyone like a normal person.”

Mark pressed the green button on the side of the treadmill, and Chris began jogging faster.

“You ass,” he swore, reaching out to slow the treadmill down, but Mark whacked his hand away. He pressed the green button again, and then again, and Chris started running in earnest.

“Your ass,” Mark corrected, grinning as Chris struggled to keep up.

“You’re- going to- skew- my data,” Chris panted, trying fruitlessly to slow the machine down. “I’ll have you know I’ve been- cataloguing- my distance- for months.”

“That’s a shame,” Mark mused, turning the machine up another two clicks. Chris opened his mouth to say something as he ran, but was too distracted by his feet tumbling over one another. He slipped back off the treadmill, landing in a crumpled heap at the far end.

Cackling, Mark turned the treadmill back down and off, and walked over to where Chris was lying, flat on his ass. He held a hand out for Chris to take. Chris swatted it away and stood, rubbing his ass.

“I don’t know why we let NASA send a bully like you to Mars,” he grumbled, trying to hide a smile.

“So you could leave him there, probably,” Mark said, not bothering to hide his grin.

“We didn’t count on the fact that not even Mars could stand you,” Chris retorted. Mark snorted, leaning on the side of the treadmill.

“Fair enough,” he said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing something other than bothering me?” Chris asked, walking back up to the treadmill and leaning over the bar of settings. Mark reached out, but Chris slapped his hand away before he had the chance to so much as turn it on.

“Probably,” Mark said. “But this is more fun.”

“For god’s sake,” Chris muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I let you bring your laptop in here, will you actually work? Lewis is going to start blaming _me_ for all the work you’re not doing.”

Mark clapped his hands together, grinning.

* * *

 

_File >HermesCloud>transfer>marksbullshitquestionsDONTREAD>67_

_marked: mission day 767_

_Question 67: Many people are afraid of dying with regrets. If you had faced death on Mars, what would your regrets have been?_

For starters, not tapping that ass.

No, but in all seriousness.

I always wanted to start a garden. A real one, not just plastic bins on the back porch. Though, to be fair, you can grow pretty much any food you want out of plastic bins on the back porch. I survived college on ramen, peanut butter, and hand grown green beans.

Only being able to grow potatoes for a year and a half really puts that in perspective. And only being able to grow tomatoes, ferns, mandrakes, and pansies for another almost-year puts that in even more perspective. I think, if I’d never made it back, I’d have regretted never getting a real garden.

And not tapping that ass.

I mean, obviously that’s the most important part. Right?

 

.

 

I guess if I died back there, I’d have regretted not telling him.

Not about his ass, I mean. Though, I don’t know. I might not have figured it out by then.  It would have been hard to regret not telling him how I feel without not knowing about, you know, how I feel. You don’t declare your undying love without having at least 400 hours of Unrequited Love Pining experience. It’s in the job description.

And maybe the space sex should have come after the whole ‘realizing’ thing. But I spent way too long in a place where not following the exact rules meant instant death, so. Doing things the wrong way is almost like a novelty, here. So I got a space-blowjob. So we might not have talked about it. It ain’t the end of the world.

Maybe someday we’ll get back to the talking part. I’m not good at that part, so personally, I’m going go avoid it for as long as I can.

The thing about him is that he can give me a blowjob and we can not talk about it, and we can have an argument and I can tell him I need time, and it still won’t be hard to be around him. It’s just not. I can tell the same stupid jokes I always tell and he’ll still do the thing with his face where he pretends he doesn’t think they’re funny, and I’ll still see it when he does, and he might know that I know but he might not, and

Ugh. Look at that. Look at that, that’s pure sap. Pure diary-level sap.

At least I’m not in denial about anything. That’s refreshing.

What am I doing? I can’t use any of this. This is useless, I just wasted twenty minutes writing this when I could have wasted those twenty minutes staring at his ass while he runs. What the hell happened to efficiency, Watney? What are you doing?

_File >HermesCloud>transfer>marksbullshitquestionsDONTREAD>67(01)_

_Question 67: Many people are afraid of dying with regrets. If you had faced death on Mars, what would your regrets have been?_

_marked: mission day 767_

Not being able to see my parents again. Or, if hadn’t been able to, not being able to tell them I loved them. And never seeing my dog again.

Not rationing ketchup properly. Not rationing _salt_ properly. On second thought, having no self-control whatsoever.

Not being able to see the crew.

And never being able to make the pun _Beckfast in bed._

* * *

 

As she sorted through the crew’s files, Beth Johanssen hummed an off-key melody. It would have sounded like the title screen song to _Leather Goddesses of Phobos,_ to anyone who had ever played it.

She looked over the files in question. Watney had labeled them all meticulously, probably from force of habit. The numbers ranged from one nearly to seventy, with noticeable skips. Beth didn’t blame him; she’d seen the interview questions NASA had sent when they’d first come through, and some of them weren’t pretty. But Watney answered enough to keep NASA’s PR teams relatively happy. The man was a natural crowd pleaser. There wasn’t much he could say that wouldn’t gain him an audience.

She opened up the Hermes Cloud folder, then click into the _transfer_ folder, looking for the files she’d need to copy into the New File she was planning to send back to NASA that night. They didn’t send information back daily, rather, weekly.

It was a chore none of them could bring themselves to hate. Each of them would send Beth a message, detailing which files out of the transfer folder they wanted to send out, and Beth would copy them all and send them back, at NASA’s predetermined time.

She’d only forgotten to send the files once, on their six month anniversary of being in space. Watney had convinced the rest of them- and Lewis had, miraculously, agreed- to celebrate. They’d played increasingly absurd team-bonding exercises, until exhaustion had overtaken them all. Beth had woken the next morning to a slew of messages from NASA, and had had to spend the next week and a half apologizing for the scare.

Smiling at the memory, Beth opened up the _marksbullshitquestionsDONTREAD_ file and began copying Watney’s interview questions. He’d told her to copy over questions 60 through 67, so she started with the one labeled _60._

As she reached _67,_ she frowned. Mark had made two copies of the same document. Strange, she thought to herself. Were they identical? She wouldn’t read them, of course- Mark’s apt folder name forbid her from even thinking of reading any of these- but there were other ways of finding out. She checked the file sizes and frowned again when she saw that the first file was about twice as big as the copy.

Of course, she thought. Mark only wanted her to copy over questions 60 through 67. Clearly he’d started on question 68 but hadn’t finished, and had typed it as 67. His computer would automatically have saved it with the _‘(0)’_ extension.

Feeling relieved, she dragged the file labeled _67_ and dropped it into her transfer folder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((beth nO))  
>  ~~((again, no plans for next chapter, no idea how long the wait will be. but i think we're over the hump now. probably. hopefully. we'll see~~  
>  there's a scene I've wanted to write since the very beginning, it was the first line of this stupid thing I ever wrote and I STILL haven't gotten to use it but I can only use it once everything's resolved and its kiL L ING me inside))  
> ((also!!! thank you all so much for 10k+ hits!! and 400 followers on [the blog!!](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com) It means so much to me, I can't tell you :) I love every single comment and every bookmark and every hit, I love all of you so much thank you ;A; ))


	39. Chapter 39

Suffice to say, the morning didn’t go well.

Mark had barely had enough time to grab a hasty tube of breakfast before Johanssen, looking like she was close to tears, had run up to him and babbled something about log entries and NASA. Mark had stuttered out a sleepy _wha?_ before Johanssen was shoved away and Lewis had dragged him by the ear up out of the kitchen and into her quarters, lecturing him all the way through.

 _“Someone_ woke up on the wrong side of the galaxy,” Mark said, folding his arms as she shut the door behind her.

“This isn’t a _joke,_ Watney.”

“So we’re done here?”

“Watney.”

“No.”

_“Watney.”_

“No. It’s not happening.”

Lewis grit her teeth. “You can’t pull something like this and not clean up after yourself,” she said, pressing her fist into her other hand.

“It was a mistake, okay?” Mark shrugged.

 _“Just a mistake-_ do you know how much PR damage this is going to cause?”

“It’ll be bigger if I say anything about it,” Mark argued. “Think about it-”

“I’ve thought about it, and I’m telling you right now you’re going to make a statement.”

“It’s- you can’t honestly expect me to talk about shit like that-”

“I can and I will. I’m ordering you to.”

“You can’t just _order_ me to do shit when I don’t want to do it.”

“Yes, I can- that’s the definition of my job.”

“Lewis-”

“And since you decided to bring this business up, you’re going to fix it-”

“Since when has my relationship been any of your business?” Mark demanded, jabbing a finger accusingly at Lewis. Lewis gaped.

“Since when has there been a _relationship?”_

“Since-” Mark broke off, mouth trying to form words his brain hadn’t quite thought of yet. “Since- since, I don’t know, all right?”

“Watney.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I’m not. I’m not sitting and talking to millions of people about this, I’m _not.”_

Lewis folded her arms. “You didn’t have a problem talking to millions of people about everything else.”

“Of course I had a problem!” Mark threw his hands up in exasperation, before tugging at his own hair. It was getting long; he was overdue for a cut. “But that was different, that was- that was just science shit, this is _personal.”_

“You signed off your rights to have anything personal when you agreed to the Ares III program,” Lewis said pointedly.

“Not like _this.”_

“Watney, this isn’t up for discussion,” Lewis snapped. “You’re going to make an apology and send it back-”

“An apology for _what?”_

“And you’re going to let me read it before you even consider sending it out, and-”

_“Lewis!”_

Mark and Lewis both turned sharply as Johanssen, panting for breath, leaned on the doorway to Lewis’s quarters.

“What?” Lewis demanded. “Don’t tell me something broke.”

“No,” Johanssen wheezed, doubling over to catch her breath. Mark took a step over and helped her upright. She gripped his shoulder, still gasping for breath. “It’s- _Beck,”_ she managed, between pants.

“What?” Lewis barked. “What about him?” She pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, “another idiot in this damn crew.”

“I couldn’t- stop him,” Johannsen grunted, looking helplessly at Lewis. “I didn’t know- what he- was doing.”

Panic, panic like Mark had never known before, flooded him from head to toe. It was sickening panic, lined with guilt- it wasn’t panic like he’d experienced on Mars, because that had been dulled slightly from the fact that every moment he’d spent there had contained a life-or-death risk, so one didn’t really take priority over the other. But this? This was panic at its finest, panic that sent his legs working as fast as he could to get him over to the semicone.

He barely noticed as he passed Martinez and Vogel in the flight deck, only noted that Chris wasn’t in there with him. He sped to the Rec, found it empty, and clambered back up the ladder to check the gym, but the gym was empty as well- and at last he reached Chris’s quarters, their quarters, but the sheets were done up just as Mark had left them that morning, and there was nothing, _nothing,_ not a _damn sign of him-_

“Jesus, okay,” Lewis’s voice said, and Mark realized he was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall. His chest didn’t feel right, why didn’t it feel right?

“Johanssen, stay here, calm him down,” Lewis’s voice continued, “he’s not going to do us any good like that.”

And of course, of _course,_ it was a panic attack. Not one of his worse ones, but a panic attack all the same.

“Okay,” Johanssen’s voice said, much closer. A hand rested on his back. “Okay, Mark, it’s just me, you’re okay.”

Mark inhaled. Exhaled.

“What,” he said, as the room started to clear and he could see Johanssen beside him again, “what did he do?”

Johanssen set something on his lap. Belatedly, Mark realized it was his own laptop. She typed in her password, rapid-fire, and opened up the Hermes Cloud folder. After a couple more clicks, a video window popped up. She clicked the square in the bottom right corner, blowing it up to full screen.

Chris Beck’s exhausted face looked at the camera.

“I don’t,” Mark said, “I don’t understand.”

“Just,” Johannsen said, and shifted the laptop so Mark had a better view. “Just… just look, okay? He… he recorded it and sent it out on the main computer, I didn’t know what he was doing, I thought he just wanted a bigger screen to see pictures on-”

“Okay, okay,” Mark said, cutting her off. “So, what’s this?”

“He- he sent it back to NASA,” Johanssen explained. “After he heard about, um.”

 _Oh,_ Mark thought. “That- you know that wasn’t your fault,” he said. “Right?”

“I should have checked with you,” Johannsen muttered.

“Okay, maybe,” Mark conceded. “But it’s not your fault, I should have just… deleted it. Whatever. It’s not important.” He gave her a tight smile. “What’s done is done, all right? Let’s focus on damage control.”

“Right. Well.” Johanssen wrung her hands together. “That’s… going to be hard, now.” She looked at the video.

Mark pressed _play._

Chris looked _terrible._ His face and chin were unshaven, his hair was a mess, and his eyes were unfocused. As the video started, he looked off to the side, as if he were distracted by something out the ship’s window.

They didn’t have the ability to edit any of the messages they sent back to earth, and Chris’s video seemed to be all done in one take. He took a breath and licked his lips, looking up at the camera. He looked below the camera, seemed to be satisfied that it was recording, and opened his mouth.

 _“This… message,”_ he said, eyes drifting off to the side again, _“is for everyone who’s probably,”_ he laughed nervously, “ _who’s probably speculating, um, about this. And who’s assuming that just because we’ve been…”_ He looked somewhere below the camera and squinted, _“that just because we’ve been stranded in space for two years, we’re, uh, we’re turning on each other.”_ He paused. _“Like animals, or something. In heat.”_ He laughed again, rubbing his face. _“I- we’re not, first of all, that’s- that’s not happening.”_

Chris rubbed his eyes and pushed his hair from his forehead. It fell right back down, but he ignored it.

 _“Um, so.”_ He licked his lips again. _“So, M-”_ He broke off, and scratched his nose. _“Watney’s been back with us for a while now. So, if that was the case, I think we’d have,”_ he laughed, _“we’d have been on him from day one.”_

He was less nervous now, looking at the camera a little more often. Chris didn’t often send video messages, and it was obvious now, why.

 _“He’s, you know,”_ Chris continued, _“he’s popular. But, no, we’re- we’ve got a little more self-control than that.”_

And then his smile tightened and fell a little.

 _“I think it’s obvious that the, uh, the message in question M-”_ He stopped himself again, with a self-deprecating grin, _“the message Watney sent back was intended to be personal.”_

Chris scratched the back of his neck, tongue rolling in his mouth as he looked away from the camera. _“And it is, it’s personal. it’s his personal life, it’s…”_ He gave a quick sigh that could have been a laugh, and looked to his side.

 _“Our,”_ he said. _“Our personal life.”_

A long stretch of silence followed this. Chris seemed to be staring out the ship’s window again, and behind him, the stars could be seen drifting past the ship slowly. After about nine seconds, he looked back at what was probably the screen, just below the camera.

 _“There’s not a lot of life you get to keep personal, with this job,”_ he said. _“And if you want personal, then.”_ He let out a breath and adjusted the seat, looking from his lap back up to the computer. _“You’ve got personal.”_ He bit his lip. _“Yes, Mark I are… together.”_

Hearing his name- his real name, being said like that, so bluntly- made Mark shift on the bed beside Johanssen.

 _“No,”_ Chris added, _“we weren’t before the Ares III mission. No, we weren’t before we rescued him. And- not to say it was sudden, it was… I mean.”_ He broke off, and then- hurriedly, so quiet that Mark could barely make out his words, _“God knows I’ve been in love with him for years, but-”_

Mark didn’t hear Chris’s next laugh, or the squeak the seat made as he sat up straight and brushed his hair back again. He didn’t hear Johannsen’s soft inhale, he didn’t feel her looking straight at him, he didn’t hear a damn thing besides the blood rushing in his ears. For a moment, he tried to remember how to unclog his tongue from his throat to let in air. It unstuck, and his lips parted, and he sucked in a sharp breath.  

 _“So,”_ Chris said, sounding as if he were finally reaching a point, _“I’m speaking as this ship’s doctor, now, to the NASA Public Relations team. And I say this for the benefit of this crew’s health and in the interest of Mark Watney’s well-being.”_

He looked directly at the camera, and there was a strange dangerousness to his eyes that Mark had never, ever seen before.

_“No questions.”_

He reached forward above the camera, and the video jolted and froze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((hayoooooo new chapter  
> im in a writing mood lately i just posted a new [stucky fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6683596) if you're interested in that *wink wink nudge nudge*  
> and I have the next part of this scheduled out all ready to go so hopefully it shouldn't be too long coming up, fingers crossed!  
> thanks especially for 420 followers on [the blog,](http://www.watney-missionlog.tumblr.com) I took a screenshot. mark would be so proud of us you guys  
> comments and kudos keep this baby chugging along, thanks so much :D))  
>  ~~((also this is probably the least edited out of all the chapters so far, im so lazy~~ OTL ))


	40. Chapter 40

He knew exactly where to go.

The botany lab seemed to hum in excitement as he drew closer, pushing himself against the walls to propel himself towards it. He clamped a hand on the doorway and drifted inside, slowing himself down to a near stop before closing the lab door behind him. He usually kept it open, but he had a feeling that both of them would appreciate the privacy- what little privacy it was.

Chris was sat in front of the row of tomato plants, one hand inspecting them, one hand around the breakfast tube in his mouth.

He looked a little better than he had in his video message- he’d obviously skipped breakfast to make it, and Mark wouldn’t have been surprised if Johanssen had woken him up early to show it to him in the first place. The bags were still dark and heavy under his eyes, and he made no movement to show that he’d seen or heard Mark come in.

A few moments passed, in which Mark stared and Chris fiddled the tomato leaves between his thumb and his forefinger. He finished the breakfast tube and stuffed it between two of the tomato boxes- Rasputin and Remus- which held it in place.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mark said.

“Of course I did.” Chris didn’t tear his eyes away from the tomatoes.

“No, you- you don’t get it.” Mark grit his teeth. “That entry- I looked the damn thing over once Johanssen told me she’d sent it to NASA. Your name’s not in there.”

“I know,” Chris said. “I read it.”

 “Then…” Mark swallowed thickly. “Then you know what I said.”

“Yes.”

“You know how I… how I feel.”

“Yes.” Chris looked up from the tomatoes, meeting Mark’s eyes. “And you heard what I said.”

Mark remembered Chris’s face, haggard and worn, remembered the croak in his voice.

_Mark and I are… together._

He’d said it almost as a question, as if the thought was just then forming in his mind. Because had it been true? Or hadn’t it? He couldn’t blame Chris for confirming something like that, even though it might not really have been the truth. They’d been sending each other mixed messages from the beginning, hadn’t they?

But he’d said it. He’d said it to the world, without the slightest hint of regret.

Mark licked his lips, looking pointedly at Rasputin. “Did you mean it?”

“Of course I meant it.”

A small noise lodged itself in Mark’s throat. “I-” he stammered. “I- you’re sure? You do?”

“Of course I do.”

“And you just-” Mark fisted his hands at his sides, and had to grab at the door to keep himself upright. “You- how are you so _calm_ about this?” he demanded.

Chris shrugged. He looked down at Rasputin and rubbed his thumb over one of the leaves. “I’ve been quiet about it for too long,” he said, “and I’m done.” He looked up at Mark, a tired smile on his face. “Cards on the table.”

“Tell me,” Mark said.

“I told you.” The smile lifted a little, reaching Chris’s eyes. “I look at you like I look at the sun.”

“Already used that one, genius.” Mark raised an eyebrow.

The smile turned small, private. Chris tore his eyes away from Mark’s and looked down at Rasputin. “Well,” he said, “it’s true. I do.”

Mark opened his mouth to speak.

“I,” Chris said, slowly. “I love you.”

Mark’s mouth snapped closed.

“I love,” Chris said. “I love every part of you. I love how you smile, I love how you laugh, I love the way you make the most out of every situation. How-” He looked up from the plant, looked back at Mark. “How could I _not_ be in love with you; half the world is in love with you- you and your damn charm, your…” He bit his lip, looking to the side for a moment. “You… you make me laugh when I don’t think I can. You make me smile when I don’t want to. You-” He looked Mark directly in the eyes. “You never do a single thing I tell you, and I should hate you, but I don’t, and it just makes me love you more.”

After his words came a silence, stretched thick between them. The small smile didn’t leave Chris’s face, and Mark spent a few moments putting his brain back in order before trying to speak again.

“Why,” he said, “didn’t you say anything?” He frowned. “Doesn’t it… hurt?”

Chris shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, loving you’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Mark frowned. “Including, like, going to Mars, right?”

Chris sighed out a laugh. “Especially including Mars.”

Mark laughed in tandem. The laugh got stuck halfway through his throat with the sound from before, and they both came out with a small choke. He sniffed through his nose, and- and look at that, he was crying.

“I,” he said, “I- I’m sorry.”

Flabbergasted, Chris pushed himself forward along the line of plants until he was only a yard or so away from Mark. “What?” He frowned. “Why?”

“I’ve…” Mark sniffed again. “I’ve been a terrible friend. And a terrible person.” He wiped his eyes, tears rolling off his cheeks and floating over towards Chris. “To you,” he added, looking away. “And I didn’t even think about it, and I should have, and I’ve been a jerk, and- and I got mad at you over things I shouldn’t have and I’m sorry.”

Chris folded his arms, guiltily. “You have every reason to be mad at me.”

“I don’t, I really don’t,” Mark insisted. “You’ve just- everything you’ve been doing, you’ve been doing for me.”

Chris said nothing to this.

“And I thought,” Mark said, “I thought it meant you looked at me and saw someone who couldn’t take care of himself, but you just-” He shook his head. “And Johanssen told me, she _told_ me- she tried to tell me, she said you’d stopped eating, you- she said you needed help and I didn’t _listen.”_

Chris’s eyes narrowed at that. “She told you?” he said, disbelievingly. “She- when?”

“Just after I found out about you,” Mark said, shrugging.

Chris rubbed his eyes tiredly, muttering to himself. Mark made out the words _“shouldn’t have”_ and _“worst time- emotionally unstable, of course.”_

Chris snapped out of it, looking back up at Mark. “Not to say I think you’re weak,” he said hurriedly.

Mark shrugged. “I know you don’t.”

Ignoring him, suddenly overrun by panic, Chris kept on. “You have to know, Mark, what I see when I look at you.”

Mark snorted. “If you say ‘the sun’ one more goddamn time, I swear to god-”

 “Mark,” Chris said, helplessly. “Mark, you’re…”

“Amazingly charming? Handsome?” Mark grinned. “Really, really fucked in the head?”

_“Remarkable.”_

Mark stared.

Chris stared back. It was like his eyes were trying to explain something he couldn’t put to words, as if staring at Mark like this would explain what happened every time Chris laid eyes on him. And Mark could do nothing but stare back at him and hope the same.

Mark suddenly stiffened.

“Wait,” he said. Chris blinked. “Was that a pun?”

Chris blinked again. “I,” he said. “Yes?”

The tension pulled and snapped, and a laugh bubbled out of Mark’s chest. Chris snorted once, twice, and began to laugh in turn. The botany lab seemed a little bigger now than it had a minute ago, and Mark let himself drift away from the door a little.

“You’re an idiot,” Chris said, still snickering.

“Pot, kettle, Chris.”

“Oh, shut up, _Watney.”_

“It’s true, you know it’s true.”

“I know you’re an idiot.”

“A handsome idiot.”

“A handsome idiot, yes.”

Another silence, slightly less strained, rested over them. They looked at each other, almost threatening to break into laughter, until-

“Can I,” Mark said, at the same time that Chris said, “Look, I-”

Mark snorted. “You first.”

Chris sighed. “I’m sorry.” He raised a hand up as Mark opened his mouth, about to interrupt. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I am. I did some things wrong, that’s not going to change. And neither of us can just… ignore that. And I know,” he said firmly, as Mark opened his mouth again, “I _know,_ you said you forgive me. But I don’t. Not yet.”

Mark blinked.

“Oh,” he said.

“But I still feel how I feel about you, and that’s not going to change, either,” Chris went on, as if Mark hadn’t spoken. “And… what?” he asked, as Mark bit his lip.

“Nothing,” Mark said, “no, keep going.”

“No,” Chris said, “what is it?”

“You just said-” Mark frowned. “About the whole forgiving thing, about you not forgiving yourself yet.”

“What about it?”

“Is that, like.” Mark gestured vaguely with his hands again. “Is that a no on the space sex, then?”

“Mark,” Chris said, through gritted teeth.

“I mean, should I just take that as a rain check, or?” Mark continued.

Chris laughed, then, and Mark gave a giggle before joining in with a laugh of his own.

It was a whole laugh, a laugh that started up in his chest and then sank down into his lungs until it was resonating with all of him. It was a laugh that rose back up into his chest and up to his face until it was spilling out of his eyes. And it hit him, then, and it only made him laugh more, as he wiped the tears from his face. They soaked into his shirt and flew off in the air, past Chris, past the plants.

“What?” Chris asked, sounding almost concerned. “What is it?”

“Sorry,” Mark murmured, scrubbing the last of his tears off. “I just- I missed this.”

Chris gave a smile that was somehow exhausted, relieved, and sad all at the same time.

“I missed you too,” he said. And blinked. “Wait, shit.”

They laughed again, until Mark’s stomach began to hurt. The lack of gravity was welcome; he didn’t have to worry about keeping himself upright and off the ground.

“Oh, shit,” Chris said, after a few moments. “Sorry, you wanted to say something, right?”

“Potty mouth Beck over here, wow,” Mark muttered.

“Oh, shut up and just tell me.”

“Nah, s’ not important.”

“Mark.”

Mark smiled. “I like that.”

“What?”

“When you call me ‘Mark’.”

Chris raised an eyebrow coolly. “It’s your name.”

“So is ‘Watney’.”

“Well all right then, Mr. Bossy Beck.”

Chris snorted.

“That was a nice speech, though,” Mark said. When Chris didn’t appear to understand, he elaborated. “About your big gay crush on me,” he explained. “Did you rehearse that?”

Chris shrugged. “Your plants are good listeners.”

Mark gasped as if Chris had struck him, shoving himself over to the row of tomatoes. “You _tainted my babies.”_ He held his hands to either side of Remus, as if shielding a small child’s ears. “What did the mean man say to you?” he cooed, sticking out his lower lip and speaking as if he were talking to a small, cuddly animal. “What did he say to you, shhh, don’t listen to him.”

Chris cackled so loud and so hard that he doubled over, twisting around in 0g so fast, he had to latch on to the doorway to stabilize himself and gasp for breath.

“What?” Mark asked, defensively.

“Just- just-” Chris gasped. “Trying to imagine you- with _kids.”_

“Hey!”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sure you’d be great, but I just-” And he collapsed into laughter again, clutching the doorway as if it were the airlock, and letting go would mean certain death.

“You think I’d be a good dad?” Mark crossed his arms, smirking. “That’s moving a little fast, don’t you think?”

“Oh shut up, you asshole.” Chris pushed off the door, reached over and smacked Mark on the arm, still giggling to himself.

“Hey, don’t use that kind of language around my children.”

_“There you are!”_

The botany lab door shoved forward, and Lewis pushed herself in. Behind her, Johannsen hovered worriedly.

“Can we go _one_ trip on this ship without someone disappearing?” Lewis barked, looking between the two of them. “You- both of you, out here, now.”

Behind her, Johanssen tapped her shoulder. “Commander,” she said quietly.

“You’ve done enough,” Lewis said dismissively. “Go see how much PR damage we’ve done, and send Watney his files- he should have more than enough to work on for the next month.”

“Er, Commander,” Beck said slowly. “I don’t know if you saw my message, but-”

“Oh, I saw it.” Lewis stared icily at Beck.

“Then you’ll know that I explicitly stated-”

“I know that you sent back a message to NASA that was unauthorized, unplanned, and unchecked,” Lewis snapped. “You sent an official statement without running it by a _single_ crewmember, without running it by your commander, and without running it by the person it would affect the most.”

Behind Beck, Watney shrank back a little.

“And as such,” Lewis continued, “it has no bearing over my orders, or the orders sent to us by NASA.”

“Commander,” Beck said, and there was something in his voice that made Lewis still. “With all due respect, I stand by my statement.”

Johanssen, Lewis, and Watney all stared at him, waiting.

“I said no questions,” Beck said firmly. “And that means no questions. No interviews. Nothing.” His gaze tightened, almost aggressively. “I rescind my agreement to take over Watney’s botany duties.”

“But,” Johanssen said, and Lewis silenced her with a hand. Her mouth was set in a tight line.

“In return,” Beck continued, “and, as it is now my responsibility, I will accept any and all PR repercussions and demands directed at Watney from now on.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow.

Beck gave a halfhearted shrug. “I’m a shitty botanist, anyway.”

Lewis’s mouth thinned even further, but there was something almost like a smile behind it.

“In the meantime,” Beck continued, “Commander.” Lewis nodded. “I need to take this man to the medical wing.”

He gestured at Watney.

“Why?” Lewis asked.

“I need him to rip off all my clothes.”

Behind Lewis, Johanssen snorted into her hand. Watney’s nervous face spread into a smile, and he seemed to be fighting not to laugh.

Lewis looked between them. She saw the exhausted grins on their faces, the way Watney’s sleeve seemed to be damp and the way his red-rimmed eyes crinkled at the edges. She saw the way Watney seemed to be vibrating with energy even in 0g, the way Beck’s shoulders weren’t tight as they always were, the way he couldn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off of Watney, the way Watney’s eyes were fixed on Beck’s just as fiercely, the way they seemed almost oblivious to the fact that their Commander was there, less than three feet away from them.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she muttered, “just _go.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((oh my god we're so close  
> this gd fic is almost over i promise))  
> ((comments and kudos and bookmarks are love ty all so much ;0; ~~(omg people write notes on their bookmarks and i LOVE THEM)))~~


	41. Chapter 41

They collapsed on the bed, laughter returning anew.

It was the laughter Mark had never been able to find on his own, as he’d stared out at the unfamiliar stars and tried to trace his own constellations. It was the laughter Chris had longed for, every time he’d reread Mark’s notes about the caretaking of ferns in 0g. It was the laughter both of them had missed, had needed with every fiber of their beings, had nearly died without- and it was _here._

Somehow, they ended up in each other’s arms, latched together.

Mark _hummed_ against Chris’s mouth, pulling off.

“Did,” he murmured, “did you actually want to…?”

“To be honest,” Chris said, rubbing his thumb over Mark’s shoulder, “I just wanted to quote _Firefly.”_

“Oh my god,” Mark groaned, “I love you.”

“I’ve never actually seen _Firefly.”_

Mark gave a small gasp that was half due to Chris’s words and half due to Chris’s tongue doing frankly _evil_ things to his collarbone.

“I take it back,” he mumbled, “you’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

“You love me, though,” Chris said, pulling off and tugging Mark’s collar down to admire the faint red mark he’d left.

Mark hummed. “I do.” He pressed a kiss to Chris’s neck, then to his jaw. “But,” he added, “do you want to?”

“Do you?”

“Fuck yeah, I do.”

It was significantly less awkward to undress now that they were talking to each other. They had a quick giggle when Mark’s pants got caught on his ankles, but quickly got back to work. Somehow between the frantic kisses and the halfway decipherable murmurs, Chris ended up on top of Mark, straddling him easily.

“Come on,” Chris said, “I’ve been dying to get my hands on you.”

“Thought you were a scientist, aren’t you supposed to frown on hands-on research?”

“If you don’t touch me right now, I will throw you out of the airlock.”

“You know, that line is starting to get a little overused.”

Chris pressed a finger to his chin, pretending to think. “You know, you’re right,” he said thoughtfully. “If you don’t get your hands on me right now, I’m taking away your waffle privileges.”

“That just might be the unsexiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“So make me say something else.”

“You’re such a-”

Chris shut him up with a kiss, laughing against his mouth. Mark didn’t complain. Their hands somehow found one another, pressed up between their chests. After a few moments, Chris pulled away.

“Do you want me to,” he began, and met Mark’s eyes. His composure crumbled, and his chest began shaking in laughter again. Mark snorted.

“For the record,” Mark said, rubbing a thumb over Chris’s hand, “this is much better than the not talking.”

“Fair enough,” Chris agreed. He gave a self-deprecating grin before sliding down the bed until his face was level with Mark’s navel. “I promise this will be better than last time,” he said.

“Dunno, last time was pretty good,” Mark said.

“Mark,” Chris said. “Last time, I blew you under the pretense of giving you a backrub.”

“Yeah, you did,” Mark admitted, looking down. “Oh, and don’t think you haven’t gotten out of backrub duties just because I’m letting you suck my-” He broke off, mouth shaped in a perfect _O,_ as Chris evidently decided he’d had enough talk. Mark let his head fall back against the pillow, hand somehow still entwined with Chris’s.

Chris pulled off. “Good?”

“For fuck’s sake-” Mark reached down with his other hand and took hold of Chris’s hair again. “If it’s not good, I’ll let you know,” he said, giving his hair a gentle tug.

“Fair enough,” Chris said, and wrapped his lips back over Mark’s cock, giving a soft _hum._ Mark’s fingers tensed in Chris’s hair, pulling tightly. Chris pulled off instantly, looking alert. Mark bit his lip- and then collapsed into cackling laughter. Chris frowned, looking slightly hurt.

“Lewis-Lewis’s _face,_ though,” Mark gasped, and burst into giggles again. Chris gave an exasperated sigh.

“Seriously?” He looked up at Mark, who bit his lip trying not to laugh.

“If you say _I’m workin’, here-”_

“How are you still hard? You just killed the mood, like, twice over-”

“Will you just get back to it, already?”

“Gosh, how romantic.”

“Like you don’t want to-” Chris shut him up, diving back down and humming quietly again.

“Fuck,” Mark breathed, letting his eyes slip closed. The _hum_ grew louder, and Mark’s fingers instantly tightened, clenching Chris’s hair and pulling sharply.

Chris pulled off, wincing. “Okay,” he said, “you’re going to need a better system than that to tell me if I’m doing something wrong.”

Mark stuck out his lip.

“I don’t mean stop,” Chris clarified. “I just mean find a better way to tell me.”

“Oh my god, fine, we can use traffic lights,” Mark groaned, “like it’s your first time, or something, whatever, go, green, just keep-”

Chris bent back down until his lips were brushing the head of Mark’s cock, barely there. Mark whined, hand squeezing tight around Chris’s. After a few careful licks, Chris slid down an inch or so, suckling gently.

“Torture,” Mark groaned, “you’re torturing me, you know that-”

Satisfied, Chris swallowed him down, this time not bothering to start off gently. Mark arched off the bed, gasping silently into the stagnant air. Chris met his eyes and, after giving what was somehow a smirk with his mouth still firmly wrapped around Mark’s cock, added the barest scrape of teeth.

 _“Fuck!”_ Mark shouted, slamming his head back down onto the pillows. “Okay, okay- you’re gonna have to stop, or this is gonna be over in, like, fifteen seconds.”

Chris pulled off petulantly.

“You want?” he asked, putting a hand on the inside of Mark’s hip. Mark, cheeks red, nodded.

“I think so,” he said.

“Gonna need more than ‘I think so’.”

“Just- I do,” Mark said. “But if it’s too much, I’ll tell you.”

Chris nodded. “Okay.”

It was slow, quiet. But not quiet like it had been. This quiet was soft, broken every so often by the sound of gentle kisses and murmured words. Mark thought vaguely of a flower budding into bloom, as Chris opened him up slowly, so slowly. They were pressed chest to chest, Mark’s arms around Chris’s neck, holding him impossibly close.

For what felt like nearly an hour, they rocked together. Drifting together in the one-person cot, they breathed and stretched and fell open together, until Chris’s fingers hit that angle, and-

Mark stiffened, going rigid. Chris pressed a kiss to his chest, letting his fingers go still. It would be more stimulation to take them out entirely, so he took care not to move them.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Mark nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine, it’s just. Been. A long time.” He bit his lip, then let it go. “Since anyone’s, uh. There.”

“Oh.” Chris bit his lip in tandem. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Don’t you dare.”

Chris gave a relieved laugh. “Okay, just- tell me if it’s too much.”

Mark ground his hips up off the bed, up against Chris’s. “Will you just get a move on?” he groaned. “We can only get away with taking so much personal time before Lewis comes in and makes us-”

“No offense to your bedroom talk, but Lewis is probably the last thing I want to be thinking about right now, okay, _please_ shut up.”

Mark’s eyes flickered. “Make me.”

Chris curled his fingers just so, and Mark _howled._

“You’re going to wake the whole ship up,” Chris teased, starting to pull them in and out again.

“Like they don’t know what we’re doing,” Mark panted.

“Still. It’d be nice to pretend you had a scrap of shame left.”

“Oh my god, will you just fuck me already?”

Chris paused, biting his lip.

“What?” Mark propped himself up by his arms, concerned. Chris pulled his fingers out gently, and Mark only shuddered a little. “What is it?”

“I can’t- I mean, as a doctor, and as your friend, and- and just as a human being with common sense, really- I can’t do something like that in good conscience,” Chris stammered.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, we-” It must have been the blood flowing down to his cock rather than up to his brain- because Chris seemed nearly lost for words. “I don’t remember NASA sending us up anything in terms of protection,” he finished, lamely. And if it weren’t for the fact that he’d been holding this in for months, _and_ for the fact that Chris Beck was stark naked on top of him, looking as gorgeous as Mark had ever seen him, then his cock might have sagged just a little at the abrupt tangent. But as Chris _was_ on top of him, and he felt just about ready to explode, it made no indication of changing its mood.

And then- _“Oh!”_ Chris said suddenly, face lighting up.

And then he was scrambling off the bed and hobbling off the bed and over to his plastic bin of personal effects, hunching over and showing his bare ass back to Mark. Mark watched it, not complaining.

“What are you doing?” he asked instead, still eyeing Chris’s ass shamelessly.

“Hold on,” Chris muttered, “I think I still have- yes!”

And then, impossibly, he held aloft-

“Is that-” Mark gaped. Chris beamed, returning to the bed and handing Mark the small foil package as if he was delivering a divine gift. Which, okay, he sort of was. “You-” Mark stuttered. “You brought condoms. To _space.”_

Beck’s triumphant smile turned sheepish, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah,” he said, looking at it. “Would you believe me if I said they were for a prank?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Chris shrugged. “Well, it was worth a shot.”

“Worth a- what are you talking about, why did you give this to _me?”_ Mark shoved the condom back into Chris’s hands. He grabbed Chris’s shoulders, bringing him back up so he was straddling Mark again, and gave him an impatient look.

“You must be really popular with the ladies back home,” Chris said, amused. He held the still wrapped condom between his index and middle fingers, wiggling it teasingly. “With that careful bedside manner of yours.”

“You’re the one who said the words ‘waffle privileges’ trying to get me to fuck you.”

“Fair enough.”

“Oh my god, do I have to do it myself?”

“I wouldn’t mind, but.” Chris leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Mark’s lips. “I think we’d better use our time efficiently, don’t you think?”

And Mark couldn’t really argue with that. “Fine,” he huffed. “But don’t think we’re finished with that conversation.”

It was slow. It was slow and slick, and every few moments Chris paused to spit down on himself. Mark couldn’t care less, but Chris seemed determined to deprive himself of as much saliva as possible. Both of them lost track of the minutes, until at last they rested together, connected completely. Chris slumped down, thighs shaking from the effort not to move.

He kissed up Mark’s chest, starting just above his navel and slowly making his way upwards. His lips were soft and slick against Mark’s skin, almost seeming to caress it with every kiss. Every few inches, he let his tongue wander between his lips, swirling lazy circles before pulling off as he peppered kisses around the new mark.

His thighs began trembling with the effort not to move as he reached Mark’s collarbone, and he finally looked up and met Mark’s eyes. “You remember,” he panted, “when we first- saw Earth- from the _Hermes?”_

“Yeah?”

“This- is better- than that.”

“You’re bringing that up _now?”_

Chris snorted. “I’m not the one who brought up Lewis’s face while I was getting my dick sucked.”

“Oh for God’s sake, make love to me, you beautiful creature.”

“So I’m beautiful, now, am I?”

Mark shrugged. “You were always beautiful.”

Chris let his head drop onto Mark’s chest, hair falling in his face. “Oh, god.”

“What?”

“Oh, god, you’re a _sap.”_

Mark snorted. “Of course I’m a sap. A man survives a year and a half on Mars, he can be a sap if he wants to.”

“You’re really playing the Mars card right now?” Chris said, looking back up at him.

“A man survives a year and a half on Mars, he can’t play the Mars card whenever he wants?”

“Oh my God.”

“A man,” Mark said, “survives a year and a half on Mars, and he can’t have sweet love made to him without a twenty-minute discussion beforehand?”

“I don’t know,” Chris said, “do you do anything without a twenty-minute discussion beforehand?”

“Survived a year and a half on Mars,” Mark said.

“If I remember correctly,” Chris said, “the idea of going to Mars in the first place was heavily discussed.”

“Well, sure,” Mark said, shrugging. “But not for twenty minutes. I think it was probably more like twenty-”

A good thrust shut him up. Chris snorted at the dazed look that had spread over Mark’s face, before leaning over and kissing it right off. Mark grabbed him around the neck, kissing back with so much force that Chris half expected his lips to fall right off.

“If,” Chris murmured, “if I say ‘do you ever shut up’, and your answer isn’t ‘only when I’m fucked properly’, I’m going to be very disappointed in you.”

“Again with the language, Mr. Beck,” Mark teased back.

“Suck a cock.”

Mark looked down, at the cock that was currently still buried inside him. “I mean,” he said, “I’m pretty amazing, but I’m not quite that talented.”

Again, another well-timed thrust stopped Mark’s next words before they left his mouth.

Coming was like a warm sigh. They held each other, as first Chris collapsed forward, drooling a litany  of murmured words, most of them _Mark_ or _love_ or _yes;_ and then as Mark followed suit, wrapping his legs up around Chris’s back and foregoing words entirely, making do with a long, drawn out moan that Chris promptly swallowed down, matching it with a noise of his own.

They sank back into the sheets together. Mark’s hand tugged on Chris’s hair as hard as he dared, his other arm wrapped around Chris’s neck.

Chris only pulled back to adjust them, as he pulled out. Mark slid his eyes shut, mind spinning sleepily, and then Chris was back on top of him, and then they turned on their sides, chest to chest. And then the room was thrust into darkness as Chris reached over and flicked off the light to his quarters.

Their hands found each other again, and Mark pressed his lips to Chris’s thumb- Chris’s _clean_ thumb.

“Hey,” Chris whispered.

“Hey, you,” Mark whispered back.

Chris snorted. “Are you going to be like this all the time?”

“Like what?”

“Horribly cheesy.”

“You better not be lactose intolerant.”

Chris huffed a laugh into the pillow. Mark’s eyes sparkled in the dim light that crept in through the crack under the door, sparkled like stars. If Chris tried hard enough, he could just make out faint constellations.

“That was bad, even for you,” he said.

“You love it.”

“Hm.”

“Say it.”

“I love _you.”_

Mark stuck out his bottom lip.

“And I love your stupid jokes,” Chris added, and the lip retracted as Mark beamed through the darkness. “Now shut up and sleep.”

“Charming,” Mark teased. “And it’s barely morning.”

“I could use a lie in,” Chris said, shrugging against the sheets. “Beth woke me up, early.”

“Fair enough.” Mark yawned, despite himself. His legs and his chest ached, but in a good way. “As long as you’re still here when I wake up,” he said, letting his eyes slide shut.

“I will be,” Chris murmured, rubbing a thumb over Mark’s hand.

The room filled with the sound of the ventilation fan, quietly hissing. If there were sounds outside the cabin door, neither heard. The sheets rustled softly as they lay together. The _Hermes_ tumbled through space, spinning them around and around through the stars. One bright point in the distance grew microscopically brighter with every passing second, the twinkling white turning to blue.

Chris Beck looked into Mark Watney’s eyes, unafraid.

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((we're so close we're so close I can TASTE it  
> also omg someone named their plant after this stupid story [GO ROOT FOR MARK PLANTNEY!!!](https://www.instagram.com/markplantney/) He is a smol plant and he needs your help and loving support to survive. (He has two brothers, Remi and Rasputin)  
> fun fact: "you brought condoms. to sPACE" was the first line i ever wrote for this shitty thing- it started it all  
> thanks again to [thespiritlamp](http://www.thespiritlamp.tumblr.com) for the beta work, you're awesome and I love you <3  
> comments and kudos are love, ty ty so much for all the support you guys have shown so far <3))  
> ((see you on the other side))


	42. Chapter 42

_Mission Day: 771: 5:22 PM_

 

“You have such a stick up your ass sometimes,” Mark grumbled. Chris opened his mouth to retort, but Mark cut him off before he could get out so much as a word. “No,” he said, “no, that’s not right. You’ve probably got something more scientific. Like- like a NASA-approved polyethylene prodding device.”

Chris choked on his water.

“What?” Mark shrugged. “You know I’m right.”

“Did you have to look up the scientific name for plastic?”

“I don’t know what to be more offended by,” Mark huffed. “The fact that you would ever _think_ of accusing me of something so- so- so _juvenile-”_

“Or the fact that I’m right?”

Mark smacked him.

* * *

 

_Mission Day: 780: 6:58 PM_

_“I got a girl in Paris, I got a girl in Rome,”_ Watney sang, swaying his hips in time to the music. _“I even got a girl in the Vatican Dome, I got a girl right here-”_ He made a sweeping arm gesture to Johanssen, who snorted into her keyboard. _“I got a girl right there-”_ He swayed his torso over to point at Martinez, who blew him a wet kiss. _“And I got a girlfriend everywhere!”_

“Remind me why we let him pick terrible music?” Beck asked Lewis, deadpan. Behind him, Watney gasped dramatically.

“I haven’t the faintest,” Lewis replied, ignoring Watney’s outburst. “Next week we’re going back to the classics.”

 _“This_ is classical music, sweetheart,” Watney said, appearing at Beck’s side and poking him in the cheek. Beck waved a hand at him, as if trying to swat away an annoying insect. _“I got a girl on the moon, I got a girl on Mars, I even got a girl who likes to dance in the-_ ow, _fuck!”_

Beck pulled back his fist, as Watney stumbled back and clutched his stomach.

* * *

 

_Mission Day: 792: 6:02 AM_

  
Chris Beck awoke to a sleepy, satisfying haze. The first thing he noticed was the heat- the lack of heat wrapped around him, to be precise, and the added heat of something-

“What the fuck,” he muttered, suddenly startling awake. Between his legs, Mark pulled off and grinned.

“Morning, beautiful.”

“What the _fuck-”_ He broke off, voice regressing into a low groan as Mark swallowed him down again, running his hands up and down Chris’s hips. Chris’s thighs shuddered, and his toes began to curl.

Mark gave his thigh a small pat, pulling off again. “Thought you’d like it,” he said.

Chris managed a nod and a sigh. “Ask next time,” he grunted, as Mark took him by the hand.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You owe me.”

“Not what I mean.” Chris lifted his head off the pillow. “Jus’ want to make sure I won’t have to piss when you wake me up.”

“Oh.” Mark’s tongue rolled around in his mouth, and he nodded in agreement. “Fair point.” He shrugged. “Wanted to surprise you, though.”

“Yeah?” Chris breathed out a laugh. “And who gave you the idea?”

Mark pouted. 

“Martinez said it would be a good idea,” Mark said reluctantly.

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. “Martinez is not qualified to give life advice.”

“It’s not life advice, it’s sex advice, there’s a difference.”

“My point still stands.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Your point, meaning- meaning the point you were trying to make, or the point your dick’s making in the sheets? Because only one of em’s still standing.”

“I hate you.”

“C’mon, it’s extra protein.”

And suddenly Mark’s face lit up like the sun. He looked up at Chris from between his legs, eyes wide, face flushed red, mouth in an unmistakable _beam._

Chris, slightly unnerved, blinked. “What?”

“You wanted me to eat better,” Mark said, voice vibrating with the effort it took to keep it level. “So why not let me have some-” He bit his lip, eyes darting between Chris’s, before unleashing- _“Beckfast in bed?”_

Chris let his head drop back to the pillow, eyes shut closed.

“It’s too early for your shitty jokes,” he groaned. “Just get on with it.”

“No, no, no,” Mark babbled, sitting up. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to use that.”

“Yeah, fifteen seconds.”

“Try _months.”_

“Sure.”

“But-”

“I gave you the go-ahead, didn’t I?” Chris raised an eyebrow. Mark frowned. “All right, all right, quit looking at me like that.” Chris gave a small smile. “It was cute.”

“It was _amazing.”_

“All right. It was amazing.”

Mark clenched his hand into a fist, hissing _yesssss._

“Go on, get your protein,” Chris said, nudging him with a knee.

“It’s less sexy when you say it.”

“So shut me up.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “All right, Mr. Bossy.”

* * *

 

_Mission Day: 799: 11:46 PM_

“You should know better than to distract a man when he’s making waffles.”

“I swear, you’re addicted to that thing.”

“And you’re addicted to my ass, but you don’t see me complaining.”

“That’s a first.”

Mark swatted Chris’s shoulder, snorting. “Very funny.”

“You’re going to get fat off of those.”

“Then NASA can just deal with the added landing weight.”

“How long are you planning on cooking those?” Chris reached over to turn the waffle iron off, and Mark smacked his hand away.

“I like ‘em charred,” Mark said, shrugging.

“You also like eating ice cream with soy sauce,” Chris pointed out.

“I like a lot of things,” Mark said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Chris slid his hands around Mark’s waist and pressed himself flush against Mark’s back. He stuck his nose into the fuzz of hair on the back of Mark’s neck, freshly shorn as of the morning. Humming softly, he began trailing lazy kisses from the nape of Mark’s neck up to his left ear, and then back again.

“You’re making it hard to concentrate,” Mark said, after a minute or so.

“Didn’t think you had to concentrate that hard to make waffles,” Chris shot back.

“Yeah? You got something more difficult in mind?” Mark wiggled his hips backward.

“I was trying to be sweet,” Chris muttered.

“You’re being sweet!” Mark looked over his shoulder and stuck out a lip. “You can be sweet and do that thing with your dick at the same time.”

_“Mark.”_

Mark turned and gave Chris a signature pout, sticking out his lip even further. He grabbed Chris’s hands and put them on his hips, invitingly.

“Look,” Chris said, biting his own lip. “Look, Mark, it’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just-”

“Just what?” Mark cocked his head to the side. “I don’t see a problem.”

“Mark, we only have so many condoms up here,” Chris said, ears going red. Mark blinked. “I mean,” Chris stammered. “It’s not like I can just walk down to the store and get another box, we have to ration these.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with rationing them before,” Mark whined. “Cmon.”

“Before, we had a whole box to go through. Now, we have three.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “Shit, seriously?”

Chris nodded gravely.

“No,” Mark said.

“Unfortunately,” Chris said gravely, “it’s true.”

Mark’s eyes began to glisten. The lip he’d stuck out started to wobble, and a small sound escaped his throat.

“Are you- are you _crying?”_

“No,” Mark muttered, voice cracking on the word.

“Jesus Christ, okay,” Chris said, shaking his head in disbelief and digging his thumbs into Mark’s hips. Mark made a guttural sound of delight, wrapping his arms around Chris’s neck and kissing his cheek. “Fine,” Chris conceded, “we’ll have sex- but just tonight, all right? We need to ration the others.”

* * *

 

_Mission Day: 800: 6:28 AM_

“Of all the mornings to be late,” Chris grumbled, shoving Mark down the hallway.

 _“Ow-_ and come on, we’re always late,” Mark called back, biting back a grin.

“I have fifteen missed alerts and seven IMs,” Chris said, and behind his irritation was a note of worry. Mark muttered something back that could have been _show off,_ and then they were sliding down the ladder into the Rec.

The rest of the crew was waiting when they finally clambered into the Rec. Beck stopped short as he entered the room, seeing Lewis sat solemnly in front of Vogel, Johanssen, and Martinez.

“So glad you could make it,” Lewis said testily. “Sit down, Beck, Watney.”

Clumsily, they made their way to their seats, slumping down beside one another.

“Now that we’re all here,” Lewis said, “I’d like to ask you all a question. Think very carefully before answering.” She cleared her throat. “Does anyone want to explain to me,” she said, sudden false cheer creeping down the necks of the five crewmembers sitting beneath her, “why I was woken at _0430_ this morning to a level _six_ alarm- _”_

Five crewmembers winced.

“-that told me our kitchens and the _entirety of Semicone A_ were filled with _smoke?”_

Martinez’s eyes widened, eyebrows skyrocketing. Vogel and Johanssen, who seemed much more exhausted than the rest of them, merely looked across the others’ faces. Beck and Watney made no movement to indicate they’d registered Lewis’s words, other than the locking down of their jaws. Lewis, sensing that none of them knew the cause, relaxed an inch or so in her seat.

“What the hell happened?” Beck asked, voice low.

“You would have known if you’d woken up to the damn alarm,” Johanssen grumbled.

“We were tired,” Watney said.

“Vogel, Johanssen, and I took care of it,” Lewis said. “We contained the smoke. _Luckily,”_ she pressed on, as Watney opened his mouth to speak, “there was no actual fire. We’re still looking into it, and the kitchen is closed off until we figure out what, exactly happened. The best guess is that something must have malfunctioned in the kitchen. For now, we’ll eat emergency rations until we figure out a way to vacuum out the smoke from the kitchen without destroying the place.”

Beside Beck, Watney stiffened.

“Oh, shit,” he breathed, going white as a sheet. “Oh, _shit.”_

“What?” Lewis said sharply.

‘I-” Watney’s mouth hung open like a fish for a moment. Beside him, Beck’s eyes widened. “It was me,” Watney said.

 _“What?”_ Lewis barked.

“What are you talking about?” Johanssen spluttered. “You were asleep.”

 _“Shit,”_ Beck echoed. “Watney’s right.”

“You were _both_ asleep-”

“Watney,” Lewis snapped, cutting them off. “Explain.”

“It was- fuck,” Watney babbled, “it was the fucking- the waffle iron.”

Lewis blinked. “The,” she said. “The waffle iron.”

“But that is not possible,” Vogel interrupted. “It has the automatic shutoff.”

“I turned it off, I wanted to-” Watney said, shaking his head distantly. “I- I- fuck, I-”

“You could have _killed all of us,”_ Lewis thundered. “Do you understand that?”

“I do, I do, I-”

“I understand you’re still recovering from- from a traumatic experience, but Watney-”

“Lewis,” Beck cut in, sharply. “It was my fault.”

“What?” Watney and Lewis chorused, looking at him blankly.

“Chris,” Watney said in a low voice. “What are you-”

“I was the one who told Watney to leave,” Beck said. “I was the one who forgot about it in the first place. It was my fault we left the kitchen without turning it off. I should have remembered.”

“And _what,”_ Lewis seethed, “was more important to you than, oh, I don’t know, the _lives of your own crewmembers?”_

Watney went very pink. Beck’s face remained impassive. Johanssen dropped her head into her hands. Vogel blinked, looking between the two of them.

Martinez snorted. Johanssen, looking scandalized, smacked his arm.

“It isn’t _funny,”_ she hissed.

“On the contrary,” Vogel said, “it is a little funny.”

* * *

 

_Mission Day: 805: 2:17 AM_

Chris Beck gasped awake, right hand clenching the sweat soaked sheets.

“Wha’s going on?” Mark mumbled, beside him. “S’fire? Again?”

Chris pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the terrified drumming of his heart. He inhaled. Exhaled.

“It’s nothing,” he said quietly, and ran a hand through Mark’s hair. “Go back to sleep.”

Mark hummed under his touch, nuzzling into his side. “Didn’t sound like nothing,” he murmured, marginally more awake.

“It was just a nightmare.” Chris shook his head. “Go back to sleep, Mark.”

“Nightmare?” Mark sat up sluggishly, as Chris propped himself up by his arms. “What kind of nightmare?”

“Mark,” Chris tried.

“Tell me.”

“It was just- look, it’s not important. I’m fine.”

“I want to hear.” Mark fumbled in the dark for Chris’s hand, found it under the blankets, and held tight. “Tell me?”

Chris sighed. He rubbed his thumb over the top of Mark’s hand.

“I get this one sometimes,” he said quietly. “Not as much, now, but I used to- anyway.” He shook his head. “We’re back on Earth, and- and you’re not there. And it’s been three years, and we forgot you. We didn’t come back for you, we didn’t- you didn’t-” He rubbed his eyes, choking out a small breath. “And you’re gone. And there’s nothing I can do.”

“Turn over.”

Chris blinked.

“What?”

“Turn _over._ I’m gonna rub your back.”

Reluctantly, Chris rolled onto his stomach, folding his arms and propping his head up. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Nope,” Mark replied, and got to work.

After Chris’s third _ow,_ he sat up.

“Just let me,” he muttered, pushing Mark down onto his stomach. “Here. This is the Trapezius.”

“I think you mentioned that one earlier,” Mark murmured, slipping his eyes closed.

“The ones on your upper arms and your shoulder are the Deltoids.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Lower back, Latissimus Dorsi.”

“Mm _hmm.”_

“You want to massage the muscle, not the bone, never pinch over the bone. Be careful not to pinch the skin. And some muscles curve around, so you can push them in a rounded motion, around the ribcage, like this… and these are your Rhomboids… push up like this…”

But Mark wasn’t really listening.

* * *

 

_Mission Day: 826: 2:29 PM_

“You know, you never explained to me why you brought condoms on board,” Mark said, as he handed Chris a lunch tube.

“Oh,” Chris said, taking it and undoing the top. “Uh. Prank?”

“You tried that one.” Mark undid his own and sucked half the contents out in three seconds, flat. “Try again.”

“Uh.”

“Because I was thinking,” Mark said, waving the tube around, “I was thinking there was a pretty good explanation.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Mark pointed the tube at Chris. “Johanssen.”

Chris spat out a mouthful of food. It drifted directly at Mark, who swerved his head to avoid it.

“Gross, man,” he said, watching it collide with the side of the wall. “You could have just said no.”

“No!” Chris said, eyes wide. “I mean- I mean, yes, sort of, but no.”

“Okay. Gonna have to narrow that down.” Mark folded his legs, suspended in 0g.

“I did bring them because of- I mean- but I didn’t use them.”

Mark frowned. “But you said you two?”

“We did, just.” Chris shrugged. “Not that. We didn’t have to get that far before realizing neither of us wanted it.”

“Huh.” Mark sucked on the tube again, thoughtfully. “Guess that makes sense.”

“I mean, it was sort of like- a mouth is a mouth, right?” Chris added.

“I don’t need a blow-by-blow description,” Mark said, wincing. And then he grinned. “Ha, get it?”

“I got it.” Unimpressed, Chris turned back to the boxes of pansies, ferns, and tomatoes. “So, anyway.”

“Yeah, anyway,” Mark said gratefully, sticking the tube between two boxes of ferns. “These are really the best choice for 0g research, because they’re pretty much indestructible. Unless you forget to water them, which would be stupid. They’re also great to keep just in a regular garden, because hardly anything eats them- except for slugs, I guess. I don’t know why they sent up pansies, because those can be a bitch to get right. They need a lot of light, they need water _constantly,_ and you need to trim off the dead blooms so that the others grow more…”

But Chris wasn’t really listening.

* * *

 

_Mission Day: 853: 1:55 AM_

 

“If I had a dollar for every time I hated you, I’d have a dollar.”

* * *

 

_Mission Day: 877: 6:00 AM_

 

“Get up.”

“Uhngh?”

“Get _up.”_

“Unless you’re on fire or giving me breakfast, go away.”

“How about both?”

Chris tugged a pillow out from under Mark and pulled it over his face.

“Come on,” Mark whined, tugging his arm. “Come on, come on, come _on.”_ He wrenched the pillow off of Chris’s face.

“Are you five?” Chris grumbled. “Jesus, what’s so important?”

“Vogel found Earth,” Mark said, face _alive._

They toppled over each other as they tore out of the room, down the hallway, and into the Semicone. As they reached the ladder, Chris gave an enormous yawn, not even bothering to hide it.

“You know,” Mark said, “I still can’t believe you’re not a morning person.”

“F’koff.”

“Ha. Language.”

“Fuck. Off.”

“I mean, I’m used to getting up early because of the whole ‘every mistake I make will literally kill me’ thing, but you? You’re a doctor, aren’t you supposed to be stuffy about stuff like this?”

“You’re a botanist,” Chris shot back.

Mark, who had reached the top of the ladder and was waiting in the rotating room for Chris to catch up, snorted. “Yeah?”

“That’s it.” Chris pushed up off the ladder and headed for the Rec, Mark in tow. “S’ too early for a punchline.”

“You’re terrible,” Mark said, and Chris grunted.

Earth was small and barely lit and seemed to twinkle in and out of distance, and it was _blue._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((and here's where I lazily solve the problem of "oh shit this fic only took place over like two months". montage!  
> (lol i was gonna go back and redo a bunch of the day numbers but this was easier)  
> only one more left! and then this bad boy is gonna be dONE ;A;  
> comments are love im serious i love every single one of you ty ty so much <3 I seriously would not have made it this far with this thing, without you guys xoxoxo))


	43. Chapter 43

**Log Entry: Mission Day 898**

Jesus Christ, I forgot about this old thing.

I haven’t looked at this in _ages_. And the only reason I’m looking at it now is because I’m combing through all the files on my laptop to make sure everything important is transferred over by the time we

By the time we go home. We’re heading home.

We can see Earth through the windows. The _Hermes_ is going to stay up here, of course, and we’re going to hop over into NASA’s probe that’s going to take us home. Unlike the ISS, the _Hermes_ actually goes out on missions- to places like, say, Mars. So it’s more fuel efficient to send up a pod like a resupply probe for whenever the crew needs it, instead of just lugging one along with us the entire trip.

Everything is all cleaned up and cleared away- we’re not taking anything back with us besides ourselves- and we’re all stuck in the clothes we’ll be wearing on the descent. We’re down to the food packs, no one’s had waffles in about a month and a half. (That might also be because of the waffle incident, but we don’t really need to get into that. Also for the record, that wasn’t my fault.)

I want to say I can’t believe I’m going home today, but

No, yeah, I can’t believe I’m going home today. It’s been two and a half years since leaving Earth. And we’re going back. I’m going home.

It’s going to take a while, and these are our last few hours technically aboard the _Hermes._ We got the pod connected yesterday, and we ran all the checks. So today we’re going to get inside, and then just count down until it’s time to head back. I’m a botanist, so I don’t know all the logistics, but I trust Martinez not to kill us all by crashing that thing into the dirt.

I don’t know what else to put here.

Everyone here is fine? We’re right by Earth, so we can video message our families again. Martinez’s kids are adorable, and so are Vogel’s. And I got to see my parents again. I absolutely didn’t cry like a little girl.

(I cried like a 44 year old man seeing his parents again for the first time in two years. Sue me.)

(Don’t actually sue me. Sue NASA.)

(Don’t actually sue NASA. Or, if you do, don’t tell them I told you to. I kind of owe them for saving my life.)

God, I’m terrible at this. I haven’t written a log entry in ages. And I’m certainly not going to keep making these back on Earth. I only made them here because Chris told me it would be good for my head.

Speaking of which, Chris and I were talking. And I’m starting a garden when I get back home.

Yeah, yeah, NASA’s gonna want me to stick around for a while- first to do all sorts of fun prodding tests, then to do a psych eval, then to figure out just how many types of space cancer I have. And even after that, they’re probably going to try to hire me there as a teacher, or something. Or offer me a position somewhere, doing something boring. After all, I made a great showcase of my fantastic math skills, with the whole staying alive thing.

But I don’t care. They could offer me the position of head of NASA and I’d still say no. Well. Maybe head of NASA. But if they offer me a teaching position, I’m going to say no. And if they want me to go back into space, I’m going to say _hell no._

I’ll keep in touch, obviously. And I’ll have to make a few speeches, and I’ll probably end up having to write a book about everything, and I’m going to have to order groceries to my house for like a month, but after all that, I’m just staying home.

And Chris and I have been talking. I always wanted to have a garden, a proper one. With fences and poles and everything. I’ll make shitty glitter glue labels for all of my vegetables. But I’m going to do it, and it’s going to be amazing, and Chris and I have been talking.

Because, see, we’ve pretty much been living together for the last seven months- living together and living with four other people, too. So living with just the two of us would be even easier, right? And I think it could work. We’d have more space to share, I’d have a garden in the back, and we’d have a whole living room and a kitchen and a real bedroom and we wouldn’t have to worry about rationing supplies and it sounds amazing.

God, I don’t even know we’re going to adjust back to being civilians on Earth. Or how _I’m_ going to adjust. I mean, buying groceries and figuring out how to eat, after having two years on ration packs and potatoes? _Do you know how many brands of peanut butter there are?_ How am I supposed to _choose?_ Jesus, I haven’t even gotten back yet and I’m already worrying.

But maybe if we’re together, it’ll be easier. Wow, that sounds cheesy. But really, I think it’ll help. If I want to stay in all day and not go out and talk to anyone, that’s fine. But I won’t feel like a lonely useless piece of shit while doing it. And we’ll have twice the grocery buying power. And if my head’s fucked up enough that I’m already worrying about buying groceries, then maybe his will be not-fucked-up enough to pick up my slack.

I don’t know if it will work. It might. It might not. I think it will. I _hope_ it will. I hope he hopes it will.

But I was talking about getting a garden, and he said in his stupid doctor voice that it would be “good for my health” or whatever, and

[EDIT: But I was talking about getting a garden, and he said in _his wonderful and knowledgeable doctor voice that it would be an excellent idea_ , and]

For the record, that last one was Chris and he’s 100% reading over my shoulder right now.

[EDIT: For the record, that last one was _me_ and he’s _somewhere else doing very important doctor things_ right now.]

[EDIT: For the record, _Chris isn’t funny and this is a very serious log.]_

[EDIT: For the record, _we’re late.]_

[EDIT: _Shit.]_

* * *

 

“Only you two,” Lewis said, “would be late for your own homecoming launch.”

“Well, technically we won’t actually be launching for another few hours,” Beck pointed out.

Lewis rolled her eyes as they shuffled into the pod, heading to their respective chairs. As they strapped in, Johanssen and Martinez started to giggle. Clockwise facing one another, they sat: Lewis, Vogel, Beck, Watney, Johanssen, and Martinez. Martinez was checking the control panel, checking one last time that everything was in order. Beside him, Lewis tore her eyes off the panel and turned to Beck and Watney, eyes narrowing.

“What were you even doing?” she asked shrewdly.

“Each other,” Watney said, not missing a beat. Beck, who had just strapped himself in, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Beck and Watney, sitting in a tree,” Martinez crowed. _“F, U, C, K, I, N-”_

“Thank _God_ we’re going back today,” Johanssen groaned. “I don’t think I could have stood another day surrounded by you idiots.”

“Aw, but that was cute,” Watney said, grinning over at Martinez, who winked back at him.

“That’s one word for it,” Beck muttered.

“Hey, he was right,” Watney pointed out.

“True.” Beck nodded. Watney snorted, and Beck laughed in turn. He reached over and took Watney’s hand, entwining their fingers.

“Oh, gross,” Johanssen muttered, trying to look away.

_“Houston to Hermes, we are clear to detach. All systems operational?”_

“Martinez to Houston,” Martinez said, “that’s a go for _Hermes._ Flight systems operational. All members secure, we are go to detach.”

_“Roger, Hermes, loud and clear. Prepare for detach, two hours.”_

“Roger, Houston,” Martinez said.

The hours passed in tense conversation.

“I think you should have known before you strapped in,” Watney said, as they reached the end. “there’s something on your ass.”

“What?” Beck scrambled around with his belts, trying to unfasten himself from the seat. _“What?_ What is it?”

Watney’s eyes gleamed. “My eyes.”

Five people groaned.

“Commander,” Vogel said, “may I exchange my seat with Martinez?”

“Oh, fuck no,” Martinez laughed. “I’m not sitting next to that.”

“Affirmative,” Lewis repeated, “fuck no.”

_“Houston to Hermes, all systems prepped for launch. Confirm?”_

“Confirm!” Martinez returned. “We are go for launch!”

 _“Copy, Hermes,”_ Houston said, and six heartbeats thrummed in excitement. _“Thirty seconds to detach.”_

“Copy, thirty seconds,” Martinez said.

Mark blinked, and the control panel blurred into one hazy grey shape. He blinked again, and it swam into focus.

“Getting teary eyed on us?” Chris teased, squeezing Mark’s hand. Mark rubbed his thumb over Chris’s palm.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

 _“Ten seconds,”_ Houston called.

“You ready?” Chris murmured, looking over at Mark.

_“Five.”_

 “Yeah,” Mark said. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

_“Four.”_

“Because we’ve still got time if you change your mind.”

_“Three.”_

Mark snorted. “Are _you_ sure?”

_“Two.”_

“Mmhmm.”

_“One.”_

And as the transporter pod lifted off and began to drift, as the vision of Earth through the tiny window became bigger and bigger, as the _Hermes_ grew smaller and smaller, their eyes met. Mark squeezed Chris’s hand, blinking back tears.

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fin._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ((*falls over* ohhghod  
> thank you again to everyone who's commented, kudos'd, bookmarked, or ever given this dumb gay space fic a view or two  
> without you this never would have happened <3 I love you all <3 <3 <3 ))
> 
> ((mark gets home and starts a garden and creates an instagram account and it instantly gets more popular than NASA's official instagram (because half of the pictures also include chris but shhhhh)  
> they name all of their plants. every single one. chris helps.  
> it takes chris time to adjust to the fact that they have to eat some of the plants even after they've named them and mark isn't that a little weird nahhhh its fine  
> they get a cat and mark names her Sojourner (Soji for short)  
> they never stop making plant, space, and mars related puns (*mark makes a space pun* wow mark that was a great Opportunity you had there)  
> they all keep in touch and get together, but after a very memorable afternoon, the rest of the Ares crew learned to call them ahead of time instead of just barging in because WOW, Martinez did not need to see that  
> mark is fuckging happy  
> the end))


End file.
